


To Build A Home

by yourenotfree



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Getting Back Together, Kid Fic, M/M, UST, adult fic, bit of a slowburn, nonfamous au, that gets resolved..., you're damn right i wrote a kid fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2019-07-17 19:32:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 32,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16102325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourenotfree/pseuds/yourenotfree
Summary: Harry is a failing writer and a recently divorced single father slogging his way through the bleakest stage of his life so far. Struggling to make ends meet after being recently laid-off, and drinking entire bottles of red wine to fall asleep at night, Harry feels like he’s stuck and doomed to a life of regrets.That is, until a chance encounter at the playground offers Harry a second crack at the life he’s been dreaming of since he was fourteen years old.Or, twenty years, two kids, and a couple of divorces later, Harry and Louis find each other again.





	1. one

Harry’s coffee is weak. He’d bought it for nothing at the petrol station next to this park, and despite his considerably low expectations, he still nearly spits it into the grass after a single sip. Fucking perfect.

 

Beside him on the park bench, a little girl with darling curls and doll-like features furrows her brow at his distress. 

 

“What’s wrong with your drink, Daddy?” Her bright green eyes go wide with concern.

 

Harry sets the takeaway cup in the grass, not much caring if it spills, and waves off her question. “I’m just not thirsty is all.” 

 

The sun is shining, a rare gift for London, but Harry’s battling a bitch of a hangover this morning and no amount of chirping birds or fresh fucking air is proving effective medicine. He rests his eyes on Nora, who has already redirected her attention to a poodle sitting delicately in an area shaded by trees. He touches a loose curl, rubs it gently between two fingers, then releases it. 

 

He knows he’s being selfish. He gets to spend the entire weekend with his daughter, something he fought long and hard for, and he’s wasting this time on his own internal whining. He sits straighter on the bench, scoots closer to Nora, and slathers on the brightest smile he can manage, suddenly determined to make a more honest effort. 

 

“Nora honey,” he begins, certain even his four-year-old can detect the false brightness in his tone. She doesn’t immediately turn, so he taps patiently at her shoulder until she does. “Did you want to play on the swings?” 

 

He feels like this outing has been somewhat of a letdown so far, and he can’t pretend he isn’t worried about what Nora might decide to report back to James. 

 

His stomach turns a little at the thought, an uncomfortable little flip that sort of makes him want to return to bed and cower under the blankets. The divorce certainly isn’t a new development--they’d been separated long before they even bothered to file--but the sudden and startling presence of someone named  _ Rick  _ is. 

 

He doesn’t want to think about that now. He doesn’t want to think about that  _ ever _ . 

 

“Somebody’s already  _ on  _ the swings,” Nora informs him very seriously, and Harry’s heart expands with love for his sweet little girl. 

 

“Well that’s alright, pet,” he tells her as he gets tenderly to his feet, and begins scanning the park for other children. “I’m sure they won’t mind sharing.” 

 

Sure enough, there  _ is  _ another child occupying Nora’s favorite swing, shaped like a rocketship and painted fire engine red. At first glance, Harry assumes it’s a little girl, but as he escorts Nora closer, he decides that the child is a boy with beautiful, honey-colored hair. 

 

The boy looks up at the sound of approaching footsteps, and his eyes are such a fierce shade of blue that Harry takes an involuntary step backwards. Nora turns to him, frightened. “Daddy?” 

 

“Hi,” Harry says to the boy. “My daughter, Nora, was just wondering if she could share this swing with you? She’ll wait until your turn is over.” 

 

The boy cocks his head, like he’s heard something amusing, and the mannerism is so cool and confident that Harry is, again, taken by surprise. 

 

“Nora can have her turn first,” he offers politely, immediately climbing out of the rocketship. On solid ground now, Harry guesses the child is at least a year or two older than his own daughter, and much taller. 

 

“That’s very kind,” Harry says graciously, feeling a bit awkward talking to a child like this. More curious than he thinks he probably should be, he asks, “What’s your name?” 

 

The boy promptly offers his hand to shake. “Nicholas. But Dad and Mum always call me Nicki for short.” 

 

Harry dwarfs Nicki’s hand with his own, and shakes it firmly. He can’t help but grin at the interaction. “Well, lovely to meet you Nicki. Nora, say thank you to Nicki. He’s being quite the little gentleman to let you use the swing first.”

 

Nora peers up at the boy from behind one of Harry’s legs, blushing fiercely. “Thank you,” she whispers shyly. 

 

Harry turns to pick her up and into his arms. His back is to Nicki when he hears something that freezes him where he stands. 

 

“Harry Styles, as I live and breathe.” 

 

He nearly drops Nora in his surprise. He holds her closer to his chest, and turns slowly. His breath catches theatrically in his throat at the sight awaiting him. 

 

He should have recognized those blue eyes from the very beginning. And the hair...the hair is the same, too. A long, messy fringe swept dramatically across the forehead. Elegantly carved cheekbones, even for a child so young. Now that they are beside each other, father and son, Harry feels like a proper idiot. They could be carbon copies of one another. 

 

Harry exhales the name, and the word is featherlight on his tongue. “ _ Louis _ .” 

 

Red lips pull into a crooked, shit-eating grin. The very same one Harry had burned into the backs of his eyelids twenty-something years ago. Harry’s mouth goes dry.

 

“The very same,” Louis says, spreading his arms grandly. 

 

And,  _ honestly _ .

 

It’s ridiculously unfair that, even at forty, Louis Tomlinson is still allowed to walk around looking like he breaks hearts for a living. That he’s still lean and delicately muscled and _breathtakingly_ _gorgeous_ in a way that really should’ve expired in his late twenties. 

 

“You’re in London,” Harry says, almost non believing. The last he’d seen or heard from Louis, he’d been preparing for the big move to Los Angeles. “What are you doing in London?” 

 

Louis runs a hand through his hair, pushing it away from his striking eyes, and laughs musically. “I’ve been back, Christ what is it now? Five, six years? Something like that.” He looks to his son. “Remind me, Nik, how old are you?” 

 

The boy sticks his tongue out at his father, but doesn’t answer. Harry can tell this is a common enough joke between them. 

 

“Six years,” Harry parrots, feeling quite stupid. He swallows all the words threatening to pour out of his throat, desperate. 

 

“Yeah, Bridget and I moved back after we found out we had a little one on the way,” Louis narrates breezily. “Wanted to be closer to Mum, of course. And all the Aunties wanted their nephew nearby. Positively  _ demanded  _ it, rather.” 

 

Something occurs to Harry for the first time. He looks back to Nicki, smiling and glowing like a little angel, and so  _ filled _ with Louis, so obviously his son. He thinks back to the way Nicki had mentioned both a dad  _ and  _ mum. And now Louis, so casually mentioning the name of a woman, of this  _ Bridget _ . The mother of his son. 

 

“Los Angeles, though,” Harry manages, suppressing his confusion as best he can. “That was the dream, your  _ dream _ .” 

 

Louis shrugs, apparently unperturbed. “Didn’t end up being everything I thought it would. And anyway,” he thumps his own chest proudly, “I’m a Brit, through and through.” 

 

“Daddy,” Nora whines, tugging urgently at the collar of his shirt, and drawing his attention back to the child in his arms. “Daddy, I want to go on the swing!” 

 

For the very first time, Louis’s eyes travel south to rest on Nora. His eyes sparkle as he asks, “And  _ who  _ is this?” 

 

Nora hides her face against Harry’s neck, and her warm breath tickles the sensitive skin there. Harry rubs a hand up and down her back in long, soothing motions. “This is my daughter,” he says automatically. “Nora.” 

 

Louis’s smile widens impossibly. “How old?”

 

“Four.” 

 

Nicki grabs excitedly for his father’s hand, and begins a jumpy, little dance. “I’m almost six,” he tells Harry jubilantly. He offers Nora a dazzling, unreasonably-charismatic smile for such a young child. “We can be playmates, if you’d like!”

 

Nora peeks out from behind Harry’s curtain of shoulder-length hair, curious and cautious all at once. Harry deposits her on her own two feet, still allowing her to keep a tight hold on his wrist. She investigates slowly, a warm, pink blush creeping delicately across her cheeks. She returns Nicki’s bright smile with a much more reserved one of her own. “Do you like Barbies?” she asks slowly. 

 

Nicki nods his head enthusiastically. “Daddy just got me a new one yesterday!” He turns to Louis. “Can Nora come over and see it?” 

 

Louis raises a brow, and shoots Harry a look over their children’s heads. “Some other time, I think. Nora is spending time with  _ her  _ Daddy today.” He inclines his head at Harry. “Of course, Nora is always welcome to come for a visit. In fact, I’m going to have to positively  _ insist  _ on it.” There’s mischief in his smile; there always has been. 

 

Nicki appeals to Harry now, eyes big and hopeful. “You promise? You promise to bring Nora over to play?” 

 

Harry feels his chest constrict rather painfully. The truth of the matter is that he wants nothing less in the entire world than to subject himself to a visit at the Tomlinson household. He can hardly bear even the  _ thought  _ of being introduced to this Bridget person, or receiving a tour of this new, unrecognizable life of Louis’s. 

 

But his eyes snag on the excitement in his daughter’s face. Her eyes, a shade of green much paler than Harry’s own, almost spilling over with the possibility of a new friend. He’s already let this perfect, little girl down more times than he can count. This is something he _can_ give her, something very simple and easy. 

 

He can’t disappoint her again. He won’t. 

 

“I promise,” he tells Nicki sincerely. “Some other time.” 

 

At this, Louis interjects. “How about tomorrow evening?” He spreads his hands. “The kids can play, and you and I will have some time to...catch up.” Harry wonders if he imagines the way Louis’s eyes darken. “I must admit,” he continues, voice lower than before, “the curiosity is killing me.” 

 

It’s that last part that Harry blames entirely for the quick, pathetic way he immediately says, “Yes, tomorrow evening is great. We’d love to.” He strokes the top of Nora’s head with one hand, and tries to control his breathing. 

 

Louis seems genuinely pleased by this. He reaches out a small hand--Harry must’ve forgotten how much he used to  _ dwarf _ this boy--and, without a hint of warning, plunges it into Harry’s front pocket. Harry makes an extremely undignified noise, and leaps a foot backwards.

 

Louis smirks, and holds Harry’s phone aloft. “I figured you’d need my number,” he explains, obviously very amused. He taps, fast and smooth, at the phone, then holds it back out to Harry. “All finished. You have mine, and I have yours.” 

 

Harry tries to laugh off his reaction, but stops because it sounds stupid even to his ears. He swallows, hard, and accepts his phone back without ceremony. “Thanks,” he says dumbly. “I guess we’ll work out a time, then. Go from there.” 

 

Louis places a hand on Nicki’s head, and pulls the boy closer to his body. His smile stretches up to his ears. “Excellent! I’ll call you tomorrow, shall I?” 

 

Harry hates the way his heart stutters at this, positively loathes himself for the way his mouth goes suddenly dry. He nods, a little too quickly and a little too enthusiastically. “Yes. Tomorrow. You’ll call me.” 

 

Louis looks at him curiously for a long moment. Finally, he claps a small hand over Nicki’s shoulder, and turns to his son. “We should be getting home, Nik. And anyway, I think it’s little Nora’s turn on the swings.” He straightens, and raises a hand in farewell. “It was lovely to see you again, Harry.” 

 

“Lovely,” Harry repeats, feeling warm and tingly all over. 

 

He watches them walk away, watches them round a corner and disappear. He stares after them for a long time, until he feels Nora starting to get restless beside him, and he finally manages to look away. 

 

“Swing, Daddy,” she’s saying, pointing towards the rocketship and pulling at him with all her might. “You promised!”

 

Harry lifts her up and into the swing without a word, still feeling strangely hollow, like the wind is blowing straight through him. He moves to stand behind the swing, in his designated location, and begins pushing her carefully. Nora laughs, loud and musical.

 

Louis fucking Tomlinson, Harry thinks to himself. Twenty years later. What the fuck are the chances? 


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It would be a lie to say he hasn’t thought about Louis Tomlinson in twenty years. He has. A lot.

Harry doesn’t sleep much that night. He tucks Nora in at eight on the dot, reads her two quick stories he retrieves from her little, pink suitcase, and leaves her when her breath slows and evens out. 

 

His head is pounding something fierce, and not for the first time that day, he wishes desperately for a drink. He roots around in his fridge, until he unearths a long-abandoned bottle of sparkling wine. He quickly locates a corkscrew, and pours himself a generous glass with a trembling hand. The first sip calms him. The second slows the thoughts churning like a storm inside his brain. He settles into the sofa with a long sigh.

 

It would be a lie to say he hasn’t thought about Louis Tomlinson in twenty years. He has. A lot. Even during his marriage, even with James. Especially at the end, when everything was falling apart, and Harry was spending every night huddled under a blanket on a threadbare couch in a friend’s basement. 

 

When it all became too much to bear, Harry would allow his mind to wander back to another time. A happier time. 

 

He squeezes his eyes shut, and forces another long drink of wine down his throat. It’s pleasantly warm as it settles in his stomach, and Harry relaxes his head back against the pillows to enjoy the feeling. 

 

It doesn’t last. The dread, cold and heavy, unfurls itself inside of him, snapping his liquor-laced brain back into focus. And, suddenly, he cannot believe the situation he’s voluntarily put himself into. He’s agreed to spend tomorrow evening at Louis Tomlinson’s _home_ with Louis Tomlinson’s _child_ , and Louis Tomlinson’s _wife_. 

 

What the  _ fuck  _ is wrong with him? Did he suddenly develop a penchant for masochism? 

 

There have been a lot of times over the years that Harry has thought about Louis, even  _ missed him _ . Harry’s fantasized a million different ways that they’d run into each other again, a million different chances for them to reconnect.

 

To fall back in love. 

 

Harry’s stomach turns. He can barely stand to  _ think  _ the words. It’s frightfully embarrassing, and more than anything else, positively pointless. 

 

Harry swallows the last of his wine, and wraps a hand around his phone. He flicks importantly through his contacts before his thumb lands on the right one. He presses the screen to his ear, and waits. 

 

It rings for a long time before a sleepy, confused voice asks, “Harry? What’s wrong? Is Nora--”

 

“Nora’s fine,” Harry says quickly. “She’s asleep, actually. That’s not why I called you.” 

 

There’s a stretch of silence on the other line, then, “Harry, I thought we agreed that this had to stop. Do you even know what time it is?” Another pause. “Have you been drinking?” 

 

Harry says nothing. The accusation stings, but the guilt, hot and slimy, burns far worse. He  _ hates  _ that James is right, hates it more than anything in the entire world. “Just a little wine,” he says, trying not to sound suspiciously defensive. “I’m not drunk or anything.” 

 

“I told you that I’d prefer if you didn’t drink  _ anything  _ around our daughter.” 

 

He feels a surge of anger at that. “Yes, well. I told  _ you  _ that I’d prefer if you didn’t  _ fuck  _ anything around our daughter.” 

 

“Harry.” 

 

He digs the heel of his free hand into his eyes, fighting off the childish urge to cry. His throat feels hot and tight with the effort. “I’m sorry,” he says, meaning it. “That was uncalled for. I shouldn’t have brought Rick up. It’s not fair of me.” 

 

“No,” James agrees coldly. “It’s not.” 

 

“I...I just had a really strange day. I’m sorry.” 

 

He can almost feel James softening. “What happened?” And Harry is pleased to detect the genuine concern masked inside the question. 

 

Harry takes a breath, because he knows that this next part might not be so easy to swallow. “I ran into an old friend in the park,” he begins carefully, feeling James out. Met with a patient silence, Harry presses onward. “Louis, actually.”

 

The silence feels different this time. Tense. Strained. 

 

“Louis,” James repeats slowly. “Louis Tomlinson?” 

 

Immediately, Harry knows this was a mistake. “You know what, forget I said anything. I’ve been drinking, like you said--” 

 

“Stop,” James interrupts, voice dark. “I just want to make sure I’ve got this right.” He pauses, inhales sharply. “You’re calling me--in the  _ middle of the night _ \--to wax poetic about the ex you never got over? The same ex who inadvertently destroyed our marriage? Is that the whole of it? Am I missing anything?” 

 

Warm tears prick the corners of Harry’s eyes. His chest constricts painfully. “It’s not...it’s not  _ like  _ that, James.” 

 

“Then what is it like? Why  _ did _ you call me?” 

 

“You’ve always been there for me,” Harry whispers. A tear drips down his cheek. He feels it land on the fabric of his joggers. “Even through all this ugliness, you’ve never turned your back on me.” He closes his eyes. “And I needed to talk to _someone_.” 

 

“Look, Harry,” he says, and the anger is gone, replaced with something Harry recognizes as exhaustion. “I really wanted us to keep things civil, for Nora, obviously, but also because I  _ care _ about you.” He pauses, takes a breath. “But you can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep calling at all hours of the night looking for a chat. It’s not...healthy. And it upsets Rick.” 

 

Harry’s vision goes momentarily red. He curls his hand into a fist, and snarls audibly into the receiver. “Well,  _ fuck me _ , if  _ Rick’s  _ got his knickers in a twist...” 

 

“Harry,” James snaps. “That’s  _ enough _ .” 

 

“I don’t  _ bloody well care _ if your boyfriend’s upset, James,” Harry scathes, latching onto this newfound fury like a lifeline. “He could drop dead tomorrow for all the good he’s doing me. He could fall off the face of this earth for all the good he’s doing  _ Nora _ .” 

 

“This conversation is over,” James says quietly, almost sadly. “And far more importantly, Harry, our  _ marriage  _ is over. Unless it concerns my daughter, please refrain from calling this number. I’d rather like some space from you for a while.” 

 

Harry ends the call abruptly, and throws his phone across the room. It lands with a muted thud in a carpeted corner, face down. Harry picks up his empty wine glass next, enjoys the weight of it in his hand, and very nearly sends it hurtling into the wall. With great effort, he replaces the glass on the coffee table. The very last thing he wants to do is wake Nora. 

 

It was a bad idea to call James like that, Harry knows. It was a far worse idea to mention Louis Tomlinson’s name. Harry’s still not sure why he brought it up in the first place. Had he expected James to understand? To sympathize? To comfort? 

 

It’s a ridiculous notion, and with the more prominent effects of the wine wearing off fast, Harry is beginning to feel like a complete twit. 

  
He needs sleep. If there’s any chance of him surviving tomorrow with even the tiniest shred of his dignity left intact, he needs to go to bed. And he needs to  _ stop  _ thinking about Louis bloody Tomlinson. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did i say every week? whoops. guess who got impatient. 
> 
> i hope you enjoyed! please leave a comment or kudo if you're feeling generous :)


	3. three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new chapter :))))))

Harry can’t believe he’s actually here. He’s so tense that he’s actually trembling with it. In one hand, he’s squeezing a freshly purchased bottle of wine by the neck so tight that his knuckles have gone white. With the other, he’s clasping desperately onto Nora, to hold himself rooted to the spot. He hasn’t yet worked himself up to knocking, and he can’t pretend not to notice the curious looks his daughter keeps sending his way.

 

“Daddy,” she says finally, eviscerating the careful silence with childish indifference. “Aren’t we going to go inside?” 

 

Harry nods without looking at her. He feels a bit like he might be sick all over the welcome mat. “In a min, love. Just give Daddy a moment.” 

 

“What for?” 

 

Harry places an open hand on the cheerful, red door to steady himself. He struggles to draw in a deep breath, but it’s ragged and forced. He tries again. Better.

 

“Okay,” he says, mostly to himself. “I’m ready.” 

 

He knocks twice, hard and fast, then takes a step backwards to wait. The door swings open within seconds, revealing a fashionably attired Louis wearing a brilliant smile. He gestures animatedly with both hands. “Come in, come in! Right on time!” 

 

Harry obliges, tugging Nora urgently in behind himself. Louis throws the door shut, and claps his hands together. “I’m so pleased you were free tonight, Harry. It’s been  _ ages _ since we last spoke. What is it now? Twenty years?” 

 

Harry tries on a smile that he knows won’t reach his eyes. “Something like that, yeah.” 

 

He’s saved from having to say anything else by the sudden arrival of Nicki, who comes crashing into the room from the direction of a long hallway. He stops just centimeters from Nora’s face, his own broken out into an expression of pure and utter joy. 

 

“You’re here!” he exclaims, and without any warning, flings both arms around her tiny shoulders. He pulls away just as quickly, and begins racing back towards the hallway that he’d just appeared from. “If we hurry, I can show you some of my toys and things before dinner. Right, Dad?” 

 

Louis grins easily at his son. “Sure. Shouldn’t be ready for a while yet.” He waves them both off. “You kids go have fun. Harry and I can do a bit of catching up.” 

 

Nora appeals to Harry with bright, shining eyes. “Go on, sweet. I’ll call you when the food’s ready.” 

 

Satisfied, Nicki lunges for Nora’s hand, and pulls her, giggling, from the room. Harry watches them disappear down the hallway, and smiles despite himself. 

 

“Enthusiastic kid,” he comments casually. 

 

Louis’s eyes are twinkling. “I had the Energizer Bunny for a son,” he says, amused. “I’ve no idea where he gets it from.” 

 

“Can’t imagine,” Harry jokes lightly, and begins staring determinedly at his feet. 

 

There’s pressure on his shoulder, and Harry shudders imperceptibly at the shot of electricity that races down his spine. He looks up, looks into eyes the color of seaglass, and stops breathing altogether. 

 

Time stands still for a long, stretched moment. Harry’s certain Louis feels it, too. It ends, suddenly. Louis withdraws his hand, effectively breaking the connection, and smiles like nothing’s happened. 

 

“So,” he drawls attractively. “Can I get you a drink?” 

 

That spurs Harry into action. Remembering the wine he’d intended as a gift, Harry stiffly holds out the bottle to Louis, who accepts it graciously. 

 

“Oh, lovely!” Louis says softly, fingers gently tracing at the label. He looks up. “Thank you. I’m positively  _ emphatic _ about a good red.” 

 

Harry coughs into his hand. “Some things about you stick.” 

 

For the very first time since his abrupt re-entrance into Harry’s life, Louis’s mask of ardent politeness and careful civility slips, and something real emerges. His mouth, as pretty and pink as Harry allowed himself to remember, curls into a much softer smile. 

 

“I always forget how well you know me,” he says thickly. Then, “ _ Knew  _ me, I suppose.” 

 

Harry’s heart lurches. He shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. He wants to contradict, wants to tell Louis that he  _ stills  _ knows him, that he will  _ always _ know him best. But as Harry looks around the room, as he takes it all in, he realizes that it isn’t true anymore. He doesn’t know this person at all. 

 

He coughs to dislodge the blockage in his throat. The tension between them is palpable, and Harry wonders exactly how long Louis expects to pretend otherwise. 

 

“So,” Harry interjects into the awkward silence. “What are we having for dinner?” 

 

Louis brightens at the question, apparently pleased to have an excuse to play perfect host once more. He jerks one thumb over his shoulder, indicating the brightly lit doorway behind himself. “You want the honest answer, ‘ve no idea. I’m no cook. But Bridget’s not too bad, actually. I’m sure it’ll be brilliant.” 

 

It’s the first time tonight that Louis’s mentioned the name, and Harry’s hackles are already raised. With a herculean effort, he manages a thin, tight-lipped smile. “I’m sure it will.” 

 

“C’mon,” Louis says suddenly, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. He begins waving Harry enthusiastically forward. “First stop on the grand tour can be the kitchen!” 

 

He strides purposefully through the archway, and Harry follows dutifully behind, feeling his entire body go numb. There’s a woman by the stove, her back turned to them. Her hair, a dull gold color that Harry finds less than impressive, is shoved into a messy topknot, and she’s humming something softly beneath her breath.

 

“Hey, Bridge,” Louis calls out, breezy and casual. He deposits the bottle of wine on the countertop. “There’s someone here I’d like you to meet.” 

 

The blond woman turns, wipes both hands on the front of her jeans, and holds out a hand to shake. “You must be Harry,” she says brightly. “It’s such a pleasure. Louis’s told me  _ loads  _ about you.”

 

Somehow, Harry doubts this. 

 

He shakes her hand quickly, then drops it. “Thank you for having us over. Nora’s really excited to have made a new friend.” 

 

Bridget tips her head back and laughs, clear and genuine. Her smile is too white, Harry decides petulantly. It’s unnatural. Almost villainous.

 

“Nicki, too, I’m sure,” she says warmly. She turns quickly, stirs something in a dark pot, then returns her attention to Harry. “I hope you like spaghetti.”

 

“Her sauce is excellent,” Louis assures, leaning leisurely against the doorframe as he does. Beneath the fabric of his navy blue sweater, a strip of flat, tanned skin is visible. 

 

Harry looks quickly away. He stuffs both hands into the front pockets of his trousers. 

 

“Spaghetti sounds great,” he tells Bridget evenly. 

 

Louis straightens. “We’ll leave you be, Bridge. I promised this man a drink.” 

 

He crosses the kitchen, and begins rooting around in a drawer, until he emerges, victorious, with a corkscrew in hand. He opens Harry’s wine with practised ease, tosses the cork in the general direction of the sink, and grasps the bottle by its neck. 

 

“Let’s go outside,” he decides cheerfully. “I’d like to show you the patio.” 

 

Harry follows Louis as he leads them back through the living room, and to a sliding glass door. Outside, the evening air is cold and brisk. A number of stars dot the night sky. Harry smiles at the sight. 

 

“I thought you couldn’t see the stars from the city,” he whispers. 

 

Louis eyes him. “Sometimes you can, sometimes you can’t.” He, too, faces the sky. His voice is incredibly quiet as he adds, “Maybe they’re shining just for you.” 

 

Something blossoms in Harry’s chest. He’s grateful for the dark when he feels his cheeks warm. 

 

“Your home is beautiful,” he says finally. “Your family...it all seems so lovely.” 

 

“‘Seems’ being the operative word.” 

 

Harry stiffens, turns. “What do you mean?”  

 

Louis smiles, but it’s pressed and it’s tired. He shakes his head gently. “Nothing, of course. You’re right. It’s  _ lovely.  _ I love being a father. Nicki’s my whole world.” 

 

This, at least, they still have in common. “Nora’s mine. She’s just about the only thing in my world these days, actually.” 

 

Louis furrows his brow. “Surely not.”

 

Harry shrugs. “I’m divorced. We started the adoption process in a ridiculous effort to tape a broken marriage back together.” He rolls his eyes. “I suppose neither of us were all that surprised when it didn’t work.” 

 

“Nora’s adopted?” Louis asks. “Odd. She has your eyes.” 

 

Harry’s heart lurches. He remembers, in vivid detail, the exact moment he realized the very same thing. The nurse had just handed over a pink bundle of blankets, and James was busy wiping his tears on the sleeve of Harry’s jacket. For a moment, only he and Nora existed. Her eyes blinked sleepily open, and Harry’s world fucking stopped. 

 

It had felt like fate. It still does. 

 

“She was meant to be my daughter,” he says aloud. “Even if James and I weren’t destined to last, we were meant to be Nora’s parents.” 

 

“James is your ex-husband?” 

 

Harry nods his affirmation. “Separated for three years, divorced for one.” 

 

He realizes, very suddenly, that this is the first time he’s spoken the words aloud. The pain is still there, muted after all this time, and yet surprisingly persistent. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Louis says softly. “Divorce is awful. Bridget and I went through all that shit a few years back. Apparently, we operate better as co-parents than spouses.” 

 

Harry feels the blood in his veins sludge to a halt. He has to remind himself sharply to breathe.

 

“You and Bridget are divorced,” he says choppily. It’s not a question. 

 

Louis raises an eyebrow at him. “Yes. We’ve remained roommates, however. For Nicki, naturally. And neither of us mind it so much, now that we’re not together.” 

 

Harry presses a hand against the side of the house. He inhales deeply against the weight of this new information. “Wow, I, uh. I didn’t realize. You two seem to get on so well.” 

 

“We’ve always been good friends,” Louis explains unhurriedly. “Got drunk one night in LA, discovered that sometimes unprotected sex  _ does  _ result in consequences, and decided to get hitched.” He licks his lips, shrugs. “Worked out exactly as you’d expect it to.” 

 

A lot of things are beginning to make sense. 

 

“Failed marriages,” Harry says. “That’s something we have in common.” 

 

Louis grins. He holds the wine bottle, no longer forgotten, up to his lips, and takes a long swig. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and offers the bottle to Harry. 

 

“Oh, thank God,” Harry murmurs as he accepts it. He drinks deeply. “Much better.” 

 

“If I remember correctly,” Louis says, eyes glinting, “you’re shit at holding your liquor, Styles.” 

 

Harry thinks Louis moves closer as he says this. He feels the brush of a shoulder bumping lightly against his. He takes another drink to hide his smile, to hide the excited tremble in his fingertips. 

 

“Your memory is failing you, then.” 

 

Louis scoffs. “My memory is perfect.” His eyes are searching as he continues. “I remember everything.”

 

Harry thinks his heart might beat straight out of his chest. “Me too.” 

 

Silence hangs precariously between them, almost loud in its intensity. Their eyes lock, and for a moment, Harry’s breath catches in his throat. 

 

They’re breathing the same air. For the first time in twenty years, Harry is within centimeters of Louis Tomlinson. If he craned his neck just a bit, their lips could be touching. The thought makes him dizzy. 

 

Something unreadable passes in the deep blue of Louis’s eyes. His smile momentarily falters. “Harry—”

 

Harry never learns what it is that Louis wanted to say, because at that moment, the sliding glass doors slides loudly open, and a grinning blonde sticks her head out. 

 

“Alright, gents,” Bridget says playfully. “Soup’s on. I’ve gathered the children. We’re just waiting on you two.”

 

The intensity in Louis’s eyes evaporates instantaneously. He slips back into his mask with the kind of ease that turns Harry’s stomach. “Fantastic,” he says, just a bit too cheery to be believable. “Ready, Harry?” 

 

Harry hauls the bottle back up to his mouth, and tips the contents down the back of his throat. He wipes at the wine spilling down his chin. “Ready.”  

  
  



	4. four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He pauses for a moment, studying Harry very closely. He whistles, low, apparently finished with his assessment. “Twenty years, but I swear it feels like yesterday.”

Harry carries Nora in from the car, her head lolling off of his shoulder, her warm breath tickling his ear. He lays her gently down in her bed, and tucks the covers under her chin. He touches his knuckles to her cheek, and sighs. 

 

She squirms sleepily under his touch. Her eyes blink blearily open, reminiscent of the very first time, and for a moment she smiles up at him. “Daddy?” she whispers.

 

“Yes, sweet?” 

 

“I had fun at Nicki’s,” she says breathily. “I like him a lot.” 

 

Harry chuckles. “He’s a very nice boy.” 

 

Her eyes flutter between open and closed for a long minute. She frowns, forces them back open. “Daddy?” she repeats imploringly. 

 

“What is it?” 

 

“I like Mr. Louis, too.”

 

And this, Harry had not been expecting. He swallows thickly. His voice is brittle as he asks, “You do?” 

 

Nora nods as her eyes fall shut for the last time. “Very much.” 

 

Harry watches her breathing even out in complete silence for a long time after that. He presses a hand up to his chest, over his heart, and exhales.

 

“Me, too.” 

 

***

 

Harry pulls into the drive of the house he once shared with James, feeling hungover in a way that, for the first time in a very long time, has nothing to do with alcohol. He slides dark sunglasses over his eyes, before deftly extracting Nora from the confines of her carseat. 

 

He watches with poorly concealed annoyance at the way she races to the front door, dragging a bedraggled, plush bear behind her. Harry follows at a careful distance, unsure how his presence is going to be received after the unfortunate phone incident. 

 

When the door opens, there are two men standing behind it, arms thrown loosely around one another, matching smiles fixed firmly in place. Harry grits his teeth and clasps both hands behind his back. 

 

“James,” he greets, perfectly pleasant. Then, more forcefully, “ _ Rick _ .” 

 

There’s a warning flashing in the deep brown of James’s eyes, hard and unforgiving. Ignoring Harry, he squats low and folds Nora into his arms. “We’ve missed you so much, Nora! We can’t wait to hear all about your weekend with Daddy.” 

 

Harry rolls his eyes at the obvious emphasis on the word  _ we _ , almost certainly put there for his benefit. Rick gives him a glacial look over both of their heads, but says nothing. Harry’s fairly certain that in the entire time he’s known Rick--about a year now--he’s heard the man speak a grand total of three times.

 

Harry stuffs Nora’s overnight bag into Rick’s open arms. “Well,” he says, now empty-handed. “I suppose I’ve done my part, then.” He touches the top of Nora’s head. “Give me a kiss goodbye, sweetheart.” 

 

He catches her up into his arms, and presses his face into her vanilla-scented hair. He squeezes her, as hard as he dares, and is entirely unprepared for the wave of sadness that sweeps through him at the prospect of letting her go. 

 

He hates this. So fucking much. And it never gets easier. 

 

“Daddy,” Nora giggles into his shoulder. “I can’t breathe!”

 

Harry kisses the crown of her head, and releases her reluctantly. He has to blink back tears as she races past James and into the house. Into her home. 

 

He thinks James notices how affected he is, and for a moment, even thinks he might care. But the moment passes, and James’s expression returns to one of stoney indifference. He folds his arms over his chest, and raises his eyebrows. “That everything?” 

 

Harry deflates a bit at that. 

 

He still remembers their wedding like it happened yesterday. Sometimes, very late at night, he goes through every detail, piece by piece, and tries to figure out how everything went so horribly wrong. They’d been in love, hadn’t they? Enough to propel them all the way to the courthouse, enough to make them want to tie themselves permanently together. 

 

And before that, much before that, they were friends.  _ Best _ friends, even. James was the first person Harry turned to in a crisis, the first person who made him feel whole again, after Louis.

 

Louis. If Harry asked James why their marriage went to shit, he’s pretty sure the answer would center around Louis. 

 

And maybe that sort of makes sense. 

 

“Yes,” Harry says thinly. “That’s it.” 

 

***

 

Harry’s busy moping around the flat, pacing restless holes into the floor, when the phone starts to ring. Hardly in the mood to exchange pleasantries, he answers the call with a snappish, “ _ What? _ ” 

 

There’s a beat of silence, then, “My,  _ my _ . Do you always answer the phone like that?” 

 

Harry freezes. “Oh, fuck. Sorry.” He nearly trips over the couch in his rush to sit down. “I, uh. I wasn’t expecting it to be, well,  _ you _ .” 

 

Louis scoffs his offense through the receiver. “Don’t sound so broken up about it.” 

 

“You’re a rather recent addition to my life these days, mate,” Harry tells him. “I’m still getting used to it.” 

 

“I much prefer to believe that I never  _ stopped  _ being apart of your life.” 

 

That hits a little too close to home. Harry feels abruptly short of breath. 

 

He needs to fucking _calm_ _down_. “Whatever you like,” he says slowly. He wonders, half-hysterical, if Louis can hear his heart, thrashing dramatically, through the phone. 

 

“Mmm,” Louis hums warmly. “Anyway, I was wondering if you’re free?”

 

“Right now?” 

 

“Yes. Right this very second.” 

 

Harry blinks. “Yes,” he says, automatically. 

 

“Nora?” 

 

“I just dropped her off with James. I’m all alone.” 

 

“Perfect,” Louis says cheerfully. “You’ll meet me, then?”

 

Harry feels a grin coming on. Tingles zip up and down his spine, electrifying every nerve in his body. It’s purely instinct that drives him to ask, without question, “Where?” 

 

***

 

Harry arrives to the coffee shop--an apparent favorite spot of Louis’s--first. He finds a table for two, in a secluded back corner of the cafe, and takes his seat. He spends the next few minutes anxiously rotating between staring at the door, and strategically memorizing the menu.

 

He feels very strongly like he needs to be prepared. Though, for what, he has no idea.

 

Harry’s still debating, incredibly seriously, whether or not to just go ahead and order a coffee, when Louis strolls through the door, ten minutes later than the agreed upon meeting time. He spots Harry easily, and strides lazily towards him.

 

He’s wearing an oversized, white sweater with the sleeves rolled up just enough for a peek at his delicately crafted wrists, and a scoop-neck that exposes the dips of his collarbones. Harry’s mouth goes dry. 

 

“You found the place,” he comments, taking his seat with an aristocratic air that’s almost sinfully attractive. 

 

“And faster than you, no less,” Harry can’t help but throw in. 

 

Louis’s smile stretches to his eyes, crinkly and warm. “It’s called being fashionably late, Harold. Surely you didn’t forget about my flair for the dramatic? It’s essentially what I’m best known for.” 

 

Feeling bold, Harry feigns surprise. “Not for the eyes? Cheekbones?” 

 

“Apparently, not everyone appreciates my looks the way some people at this table used to,” he says with amusement. His smile is all fox now, pleased and arrogant. “Of course, I’m not  _ quite  _ as young as I once was.” He leans back in his chair, properly lounging now, and spreads his hands. “Forty. Can you believe it?” 

 

No. He really can’t. 

 

“I’m nearly there, as well,” he says instead. “Two little years ‘til the big four-oh.” 

 

Louis nods empathetically. “When the fuck did that happen? Feels like just yesterday we were kids, doing whatever we wanted, whenever we wanted. Not a single goddamn care in the world.” 

 

He pauses for a moment, studying Harry very closely. He whistles, low, apparently finished with his assessment. “Twenty years, but I swear it feels like yesterday.” 

 

“Happy memories, I hope,” Harry mumbles, feeling suddenly and inexplicably nervous under Louis’s hot, scrutinous gaze. He squirms in his seat, runs a hand through his hair for something to do. 

 

“Of course,” Louis concedes gently. “Sometimes I think those were the happiest days of my life.” Does he sound wistful? Harry thinks maybe he does.

 

“I do, too,” Harry admits, very quiet.

 

Louis tilts his head. “And what about this James person?”

 

Harry swallows, frowns. “What about him?” 

 

“How’d you meet? What’s he like? All of it. I’m insatiably curious about the men in your life.” 

 

Could there be a touch of jealousy hidden somewhere in Louis’s voice? Harry hates the way hope rises and expands in his chest. He squashes it quickly and forcefully. 

 

“It’s your usual story, I expect,” he begins. “We were friends at uni. Dated for a bit, split up, then got back together a year later. James proposed, I accepted. Courthouse wedding, followed by a shit marriage. We tried to reignite the flame with the adoption, but even after Nora came along, it was pretty clear the situation wasn’t improving any.” 

 

Louis looks a bit surprised. His eyes widen slightly, and his mouth falls partially open. “Sounds like you were together for a while though, yeah?” 

 

Harry knows the math by heart, but it still pricks at him uncomfortably. He shrugs, as nonchalant as he can manage at the moment. “Seven years. Give or take. Something like that.” 

 

“Long fucking time, mate,” he says, and why is he frowning? 

 

Harry shrugs again, more pronounced this time. “It wasn’t working. To be honest, I think the reason we started dating in the first place, was because it was a safe bet. We were good friends, comfortable with each other.” He tries for a small laugh. “Both into blokes and all.” 

 

And now Louis is definitely frowning. A line has formed between his brows, and his lips are pulled decidedly downwards. “And now? Are you still close?” 

 

Harry thinks about the look James had given him today, cold and distant and entirely new. He remembers the hollow ache it had created in his stomach. “Not really,” he hears himself say. “We tried the whole civility thing, but it didn’t quite...work out.” 

 

“Why not?”

 

The irony is not lost on Harry. 

 

“No particular reason,” he lies, through his teeth. “Just a side effect of divorce, I expect.” 

 

Louis’s frown, impossibly, deepens. The light behind his eyes goes out completely. Harry wants desperately to reach across the table to smooth out the lines carved across his forehead, but he remains firmly in place. 

 

“Let’s not waste time on all that unpleasantness,” he quickly interjects into the growing quiet. “I want to hear more about  _ you _ . What are you up to these days?” 

 

It takes a moment, but Louis’s tense expression finally relaxes. His muscles visibly loosen beneath his sweater. “Not much,” he says evenly. “Work and Nicki, mostly. I’m the executive director over at the Alexander McQueen London headquarters.” 

 

Harry’s jaw drops open. He exhales a breathy little laugh. “That’s...that’s  _ amazing _ , Louis. An executive  _ director?  _ No shit.” 

 

Really, he’s less surprised than he probably should be. But why should it come as a surprise? Louis, smart,  _ charismatic  _ Louis, who’s never accepted anything less than what he feels he’s deserved. Who Harry’s always known to be focused and driven. It makes perfect sense, that he should be so successful. That he should accomplish so much. 

 

The pride almost knocks him out of his chair. It’s overwhelming. All-consuming.

 

Louis waves off his exclamations, but his smile is back. “Oh, stuff it, would you? Let’s hear about you then, Styles? Still writing, I expect?” 

 

Harry had anticipated this question, but it still stings. “I was working as a journalist, until very recently,” he says slowly. He hasn’t gotten used to that last bit just yet. He hates having to tack it on, almost wishes he’d just lied. “I’m looking for something new,” he adds, a little defensively.

 

He can’t make the right words come out.  _ Laid off _ .  _ Unemployed _ . 

 

The truth feels shameful. He hasn’t written a thing in months. Not for lack of trying. Hours and hours and hours he’s chained himself to his desk, but each time he does, nothing comes out. Like he’s run out of words. Like he’s empty. 

 

He doesn’t want to look up, doesn’t want to see the embarrassment reflected in Louis’s eyes, but when he finally forces himself to, Louis’s smile is still locked in place. 

 

He waves a hand dismissively. “I get it. Took me  _ ages  _ to finally settle into the fashion industry. I was going through jobs left and right before then, as I’m sure you can recall. You’ve got to find the right fit. Someplace that makes you happy.” 

 

Happy. Yeah, Harry’s been working on that one for a while. 

 

He’s eyes Louis’s bright, blue eyes. The warmth in his cheeks. He thinks he might be getting closer. 

 

“This is nice,” he says impulsively, and effectively cutting off whatever Louis had been right in the middle of saying. 

 

Louis doesn’t appear to mind the interruption at all. He laughs, and it sounds like bells. “Yes, it is,” he agrees. “Twenty years is far too long to go without so much as a phone call. We have a lot of time to account for.” 

 

Harry is just about to respond with his own fervent agreement, when Louis’s phone lets out a string of loud, agressive  _ beeps _ . 

 

Louis holds up a finger, and dives into his pocket, pulling out a silver iPhone that looks enormous in his hand. He taps madly at the screen, making an unpleasant face as he does so. He makes a low, irritated noise, and when he looks up from the phone, his face is slanted in dismay. 

 

“It’s my assistant,” he says apologetically. “I was supposed to have the day off, but apparently there’s some shipping crisis that requires my immediate attention.” He huffs his frustration. “Normally I have people under me who handle things like this, but we’re in the process of moving store location, and apparently the madness of it all has made my entire staff incompetent.”

 

Harry fights the wave of disappointment, and tries on a smile. “Don’t worry about it. If they need you there, you have to go. I completely understand.” 

 

Louis gets hesitantly to his feet, his expression apologetic. He reaches back into the pocket of his slate grey trousers, and fishes out his wallet. He tosses a few bills onto the table. “Coffee’s on me. I feel terrible for doing this.” His eyes light up very suddenly, like he’s thought of something brilliant. “Come to my office tomorrow! I’d love to show you around. I’ll text you the details. Yeah?” 

 

Harry’s heart stutters weakly in his chest. He’s already having trouble denying Louis anything, and the man’s been back in his life for less than a week. It’s unnerving.

 

“I’d love to.” 

 

Louis smiles his relief. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow!” He starts to take a step, hesitates, then quickly rushes forwards to crush Harry into a tight, half-hug. It’s so unexpected, Harry nearly yelps. 

 

And then Louis’s gone again, racing towards the door, and tossing one final, casual smile over his shoulder. Harry stares blankly after him, long after the door closes noisily behind him.    
  


It’s a long time before he manages to scoop up the money, and move to place his order. The barista takes a single look at his face, and wonders aloud at his smile. 

 

Harry ducks his head and blushes. He can hardly taste the coffee. 


	5. five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You didn’t have any of these the last time I saw you. Now you’re covered,” he murmurs. His fingers travel upwards, touching lightly on the sparrows. “I quite like them. I was never brave enough to get one. Never sure of what I wanted.”

The building is sleek, all dark windows and intimidating stone. Harry feels incredibly out of place as he watches a man in a dark suit stride purposefully inside the double doors, talking rapidly into an earpiece. 

 

Harry looks down at himself, assessing the outfit he had spent his entire morning on. Nothing in his closet had felt appropriate, but surely he could’ve done better than this? The black jeans and striped sweater combo feels alarmingly underdressed, and his black boots, once shiny and new, are currently scuffed beyond repair. 

 

Sighing deeply, Harry begrudgingly accepts the shortcomings of his less than impressive wardrobe, and finally makes it through the doors. The lobby is absolutely drowning in marble, and finished with sleek, black furniture. Hints of color peek through in explosions of plant life scattered throughout the room. 

 

A man wearing a headset and clutching a clipboard close to his chest darts forward the minute he sets eyes on Harry. He, too, is dressed in an impressive suit, this one in a lovely shade of navy blue. He smiles quite warmly, and holds out a hand to shake. 

 

“Mr. Styles? I’m Liam Payne, Mr. Tomlinson’s personal assistant. He told me you would be coming in today, and to make sure I was here to show you upstairs.” 

 

Slightly taken aback by his forwardness, Harry accepts the hand, and returns the enthusiastic shake. “That’s me,” he says. “Just Harry, though. Pleasure.”

 

Liam is practically bouncing up and down in his excitement. Harry can almost feel the energy radiating off of his skin like it’s heat. He pulls a pen seemingly out of thin air, and begins writing furiously on his clipboard. “Mr. Tomlinson has a meeting this morning, but he should be finishing up any minute now.” He looks up. “Would you like to wait for him upstairs? I can get you a beverage while you do so?” 

 

Harry blinks at his eagerness. “Um. Yeah, I guess. Yes. That would be lovely, thank you.” 

 

Without another word, Liam spins quickly to face the opposite direction, and starts off towards the nearest elevator. He jams a thumb into the button, and ushers Harry inside with a flourish. They ride to the fourth floor, and exit into a small waiting room that branches off into two long hallways. 

 

The waiting area looks like a copied and pasted version of the lobby--the same drab, dull color scheme and monochromatic styling. Harry takes a seat in the nearest black, leather armchair. It’s almost annoyingly comfortable. Liam bounces up to him, holding his pen aloft.

 

“To drink? Tea? Coffee? Water?” 

 

“Just a water, thanks.” 

 

Liam bounds off, on a mission for water. Harry is beginning to find his dedication charming. He’s certain he’s never met someone quite as enthusiastic about fetching drinks and playing greeter before, and he can’t deny the entertainment value.

 

He’s pulled out of his thoughts by the sound of approaching footsteps against the marble floor. Harry turns his head, only to be greeted by a sight that very nearly stops his heart altogether. 

 

Oh, wow. 

 

Louis is positively dripping in expensive fabric, fitted perfectly into a deep, burgundy three-piece. His hair, usually all unkempt strands and messy fringe, is swept elegantly off his forehead. The lazy, knowing smirk completes the look. 

 

Harry exhales choppily. 

 

“I’m definitely underdressed,” he says aloud. 

 

Louis glances down at his own attire. “What? This old thing?” He makes a face. “Just something I threw on.” 

 

“Says the fashion executive,” Harry mutters, eyes narrowed.

 

There’s mischief sparkling in his eyes and scribbled all across his face as he casually says, “It’s funny you should mention it, actually.” He pauses dramatically, then tosses in, “Seeing as I’ve grown bored of my actual work today, and have instead decided that we’ll play a nice game of dress up.” 

 

It takes a minute for that to really sink in. Harry gapes. “Sorry?” 

 

An evil smile spreads slowly, exposing a set of white, glinting teeth. Louis crosses the room to Harry’s chair, and wraps a hand around his wrist. He drags him to his feet, and Harry feels momentarily superior as Louis is suddenly forced to look upwards to continue their eye contact. They’re close enough that Harry’s chin could bump into Louis’s forehead. 

 

The hand around Harry’s wrist tugs him towards the hallway opposite to the one Louis had emerged from only seconds before. “Where are we going?” 

 

Louis wiggles his brows. “We have an entire room of samples here,” he says. “Sizes that fit you lanky, model types.” 

 

Harry resists every urge he has to throw Louis into the nearest wall, exercising a burst of self control he wasn’t aware he possessed. He focuses, instead, on the door that Louis is propelling them towards. 

 

As they pass through, Louis flicks the lights on, and something occurs to Harry. His stomach flips, not unpleasantly. “Did you just call me a model?” 

 

“You’ve kept unusually trim for a man in his late thirties,” Louis simpers prettily. His fingers tighten on Harry’s pulse point. 

 

And this? This is definitely flirting right? Harry can’t possibly be imagining this tension? 

 

They come to a stop, before a trio of lit mirrors arranged in a semicircle. Louis grins and grins and grins. He raises his arms, indicating the racks upon racks of sample clothing crammed into every free space in the room. “Tell me, Harry. What  _ speaks _ to you?” 

 

Harry looks shyly around, cheeks blazing. He’s surrounded by vibrantly colored, extravagantly patterned luxury menswear, and it’s all very intimidating. He turns to Louis with wide eyes. “Help me?” 

 

Louis releases his wrist, and steps out of reach all in one, fluid motion. He turns his back to Harry, and begins rummaging expertly through the racks. He pulls several items out, examines them carefully, and throws them over one arm. 

 

Finished, he faces Harry again, presenting him with his findings. Harry raises his eyebrows, immediately skeptical of the topmost selection. “Is that leather?” 

 

Louis smiles, all fox, and hands over a pair of startlingly maroon, leather trousers, and a long coat covered in velvet tiger-print. “Now, now. These are from our newest collection, Harold. Nothing to turn your nose up at. You should see the price tags.” 

 

Harry rather thinks it’s better that he does not. He holds the clothing carefully away from his body, still trying to gauge whether or not Louis’s having him on. “You haven’t given me a shirt.” 

 

Louis’s eyes twinkle. He points toward a changing area in the back corner. “Off you go,” he says simply. “I’ll hear no more complaining from you.” 

 

***

 

Harry twists before the mirrors, angling to see his backside. He pulls at the coat, almost feeling as though he’s wearing a very elaborate costume. Like he’s dressed up as someone else. He flips back around, touches the soft part of his stomach, exposed through the opening in the coat. 

 

From directly behind him, Louis tsks gently. “Stop fussing. You’ve been styled by an  _ expert _ . Straighten your posture. Let’s see some confidence.” 

 

Harry rolls his eyes, but obliges and straightens his spine. He drops a hand into one of the coat pockets, and pops one hip out. He sees Louis’s smile become fond in the mirror. He sneaks a hand around Harry’s waist, fiddling gently with buttons, until his fingers come to rest on the butterfly tattoos across Harry’s stomach. He traces the curving lines thoughtfully. 

 

“You didn’t have any of these the last time I saw you. Now you’re covered,” he murmurs. His fingers travel upwards, touching lightly on the sparrows. “I quite like them. I was never brave enough to get one. Never sure of what I wanted.” 

 

Harry turns slowly, heart in his throat. Louis’s hand flattens across his chest, completely still now, and Harry is suddenly very aware of how close they are. Of how truly and completely  _ alone  _ they are. 

 

For a long minute, the only sound in the room is their joint breathing. Harry’s skin’s on fire where Louis’s hand touches it. His entire body is shaking and thrumming with nervous energy. 

 

Harry is coming undone at the seams. 

 

He  _ wants _ so much, enough to fill the sky. He wants to run his thumb along the curves of Louis’s mouth, wants to drag a hand through that perfectly styled hair and thoroughly fuck it up. He wants to press himself into Louis, wants the space between them to disappear completely. 

 

Tears collect in the corners of his eyes, and he’s not sure why, but suddenly the emotion is overwhelming. It’s all too much. He turns away, abruptly and effectively severing the connection. 

 

He hears Louis exhale a loud, shaky breath. The fingers on his chest slip from his skin. 

 

“It’s not half bad,” Harry says breathlessly, returning his gaze to the mirror. He touches the tight leather of his trousers, admires the expensive material beneath his fingers. “A bit out there, sure. But not half bad.” 

 

Louis recovers, much smoother than Harry had managed. “You have a sudden and desperate need to add some leather to your wardrobe, I think. These look like they were  _ made _ for you.” 

 

“My wardrobe probably could use some updating,” Harry allows. “Though I have my doubts that anything sold with an Alexander McQueen tag on it falls within my price range.” 

 

Louis quirks a single brow, and smirks. “It’s unfortunate you don’t happen to know any executive directors around here.” 

 

Harry smiles everywhere. 


	6. six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn’t want this to end just yet, isn’t ready to let go. Just like that day, so many years ago, when Harry’s mouth had run dry and he couldn’t think of a good enough reason to make Louis stay.

Over the next few days, Harry and Louis text casually back and forth. Cautiously, at first, still struggling against the unresolved tension from the other day at Louis’s office. But it doesn’t take long to get much easier, more natural. And it doesn’t take long for Harry to start getting anxious. Anxious to see Louis again. Anxious to  _ resolve  _ the tension. 

 

Perhaps he’s getting ahead of himself. 

 

The more desperate Harry grows to see Louis, the more busy Louis seems to become. In his absence, Harry throws himself into his own work, newly invigorated after learning of Louis’s success. He spends hours pouring over his resume, tweaking and editing until he wants to rip out his hair and scratch out his eyes. He fills out five different applications for five different jobs he doesn’t really care about, and stares impatiently at the phone in his hand,  _ willing  _ it to ring. By Friday, he’s gone through three bottles of wine, most of his sanity, and he  _ still _ hasn’t heard back about any of his applications. 

 

Stir-crazy and lonelier than he cares to admit, Harry is practically beside himself with excitement as he drives back to James’ place to pick Nora up. 

 

He feels his entire body warm at the sight of his little girl skipping merrily towards him, even if the image is disrupted by the tight-lipped and brooding presence of James just behind her. Rick, miraculously, is nowhere to be seen. Harry catches Nora up and into his arms, presses her little body against his chest, and inhales the familiar scent of her clean skin. 

 

James crosses his arms, shifting from foot to foot like he’s uncomfortable. Harry eases Nora back to the ground, and raises both eyebrows. “What is it?”

 

For a long second, James raises his eyes to meet Harry’s. He wants to say something, Harry can feel the unspoken words like a heavy weight on both of their shoulders. But the moment passes, and the words die on his tongue. 

 

“Nothing,” James says finally, shoulders slumped in defeat. “Have a good weekend with Daddy, Nora. I’ll see you Sunday night.”

 

Harry leaves it at that, far too delighted to have his daughter back with him to care much about whatever James couldn’t bring himself to say. He shuffles her eagerly to the car, buckles her into the car seat, and cranks the radio. 

 

He orders a large, offensively cheesy pizza for them to share, and speeds home. They eat it on the floor in the living room, picnic style, Nora’s cut painstakingly into bite-sized pieces. She chews them thoughtfully, and enthusiastically announces that it’s the best pizza she’s ever had. 

 

Harry’s cheeks hurt from grinning.  

 

After dinner, they both change into pajamas, and Harry entertains Nora by throwing his long hair into lopsided pigtails. He slips Mulan into the DVD player, and unabashedly sings along to every song. 

 

His heart feels so full, so overflowing with happiness. Nothing, not the new resume, or the job applications, or the stark reminder of his own unemployment, can bring him down right now. 

 

Halfway through the movie, Nora jumps to her feet, having suddenly remembered the newly purchased, bubblegum pink nail polish packed away in her suitcase. She returns with it clutched carefully between her palms, and holds it out to Harry like an offering. Her eyes are so wide that Harry fleetingly wonders how they don’t pop right out of her skull. 

 

Harry accepts it with a smile. “Do you want me to paint your nails, sweet?” 

 

Nora shakes her head rapidly from side to side. She grabs onto his arm, bouncing and giddy with excitement. “No _ ,  _ Daddy. I’m gonna paint  _ yours _ .”

 

Harry quirks a single brow, studies the bright assault of color through the bottle, and relents with a shrug. It’s not the first time he’s had a manicure, and he’s certain it won’t be the last. He uncaps the bottle, places it safely onto the coffee table, and hands Nora the applicator. “I’ve always wanted pretty pink nails.” 

 

Nora sticks the very tip of her tongue out the corner of her mouth and sets to work. After an hour--during which both the couch and the rug narrowly escape unforgiving spills of polish-Harry’s fingernails (and much of the surrounding skin) are a brilliant shade of pink, and Nora’s almost wetting herself with pride. 

 

“Do you like them, Daddy?” She asks sweetly, eyes enormous. 

 

Harry smiles very gently. “I  _ love  _ them, Nora. You did a fabulous job.” He reaches for the bottle. “I’ll paint yours now, so we can match.” 

 

When he’s finished, Harry snaps a quick picture of their nails, and sends it to Louis, adding a cheerful string of pink emoticons underneath. 

 

The answering message is immediate.  _ Save some polish for me!  _

 

Harry’s fingers fly across the keyboard.  _ If you hurry, Nora can fit you in before bedtime.  _

 

The response crushes the swell of eagerness in his chest. Harry stares glumly down at the picture on his screen, and tries to suppress his disappointment. Beside him, Nora remains blissfully ignorant, newly engrossed in the film as she waits for her nails to dry. 

 

_ Do they ever let you sleep?  _

 

_ Sleep is for the dead, Harold. We may be old, but we are still very much alive.  _

 

Harry’s fingers stutter over the screen, suddenly unsure of how to respond. He holds off, tossing his phone sideways onto an empty expanse of couch, and reaches out a hand to tug at one of Nora’s curls. 

 

“Nora-girl,” he calls out to her, in sing-song. “Is the movie over yet?” 

 

Without moving her eyes from the telly, she shakes her head. She’s upright, standing just inches from the screen, and positively enraptured by the colorful animations. Harry can’t blame her. Of all the Disney movies he’s sat through for his daughter, this one isn’t half-bad. 

 

Harry picks up his phone, and returns his attention to the text conversation at hand. In his absence, Louis’s sent him another photo, this one of his shirtfront, unbuttoned just enough to reveal a deep V of muscled chest. Harry touches his phone, tries to  _ feel _ the silky, white shirt through the screen, and stops abruptly when he becomes embarrassed. 

 

Harry’s heart rate picks up, right on cue. 

 

_ Professionalism in the workplace really is dead, then.  _

 

_ There’s no one here to offend with my nakedness other than myself. Everyone else had the sense to abandon ship a long time ago.  _

 

From somewhere very far away, Nora giggles manically. Harry drifts even further away. 

 

_ And what about you? When do you throw in the towel for the night?  _

 

The response takes longer. In some rational part of Harry’s brain, he knows that it’s just a minute or two more, but the seconds ticking by put him on edge. He fidgets with the phone, turning it over and over in his hands, and taps his foot rapidly against the floor. 

 

Finally, it comes.  _ Think I’m done for now. I can’t even think straight anymore. _

 

Neither can Harry. He feels fuzzy. He feels fearless. 

 

_ Go home. Sleep on it.  _

 

_ Sage advice. I think I will. Goodnight Harry.  _

 

Harry exhales a short breath of disappointment. He doesn’t want this to end just yet, isn’t ready to let go. Just like that day, so many years ago, when Harry’s mouth had run dry and he couldn’t think of a good enough reason to make Louis stay. This feeling, achy and lonely and scared, is all too familiar. 

 

_ Goodnight Louis.  _

 

He watches the screen a moment longer, anxiously waiting for a text bubble to appear. When it doesn’t, Harry locks his phone, and sets it aside. 

 

With Nora still helpfully occupied, Harry clears away the remains of their dinner, and makes quick work of the washing up. As he dries off his hands, he catches himself admiring his nails, turning them over to make them catch the light. 

 

Harry returns to the couch, and slumps tirededly into the cushions. He pulls Nora into his lap, and smiles fondly at the sleepy way she’s tucked her thumb into her mouth. Her head lolls heavily against his shoulder, and Harry watches as her eyelids droop lower and lower over her pretty, green eyes. He kisses the top of her head, and holds her more firmly against his chest. 

 

By the time the credits roll, Nora’s unconscious, and Harry can’t seem to find the energy to carry her to bed. Only half awake himself, Harry wraps a protective arm around his daughter’s waist, and adjusts their positioning until they are laying side by side on the couch. He flicks off the telly, and momentarily revels in the abrupt and absolute darkness. 

 

Pressed into his side, Nora is warm. Harry closes his eyes, relaxes every muscle in his body. He falls asleep between one breath and the next, quick and seamless, and every dream he has is haunted by an eighteen year old boy with eyes the color of the sea. 

 


	7. seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well. I mean. I think about you all the time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (*personally* I really like this one...)

“Happy Saturday,” Louis says drily as Harry opens the door to his flat. He breezes inside, Nicki hot on his heels, cradling two takeaway bags in his arms.

 

Harry closes the behind him, feeling a bit lost for words. “Did I forget you were coming over, or did I never actually invite you?” 

 

Louis drops the bags gracelessly onto the kitchen countertop, pivots to face Harry, and places both hands on his hips. “Nevermind all that. Aren’t you pleased to see me? And  _ where  _ is the little princess? I brought her a plaything.” His eyes flicker momentarily to Harry’s hands. “And, naturally, I’m absolutely dead jealous of your pretty nails, and would like some to match.” 

 

“In her room napping,” Harry says automatically, barely paying attention. He follows Louis with his eyes as he circles the apartment, opening and closing cabinets and appraising the furniture. “What’s in the bags?” 

 

Louis pauses, his fingers already wrapped around one of Harry’s living room pillows. “Dinner. I got Chinese.” He continues his inspection, stopping every now and then to make little comments to Nicki, and shoot Harry looks of approval. 

 

“Your place is nice,” Louis says finally, apparently finished. He casually pushes a hand into Nicki’s messy hair, and begins stroking absently. Nicki doesn’t seem to mind, rather appears to barely notice. “Cozy.” 

 

There’s warmth in Louis’s eyes, like hearth and home. Images flash through Harry’s mind, blisteringly fast, of oversized sweaters and heavy blankets and bare ankles touching each other in the dark. 

 

“It’s small,” Harry corrects, looking around sheepishly. He remembers the expanse of Louis’s home, with its stylish decor and long, winding hallways, and feels instantly embarrassed. He clears his throat. “It’s really just a temporary space.”

 

Louis looks him straight in the eye. “It’s  _ nice _ ,” he repeats, much more forcefully than before. “Lovely, actually.” 

 

Harry swallows, tries and fails to suppress a smile. “Thank you.” He squints. “Why, exactly, are you here?”

 

“Sometimes,” his eyes glitter, “I like to have my conversations in person and not just over text.” He seems to remember Nicki as his eyes travel south. “Also, my son is infatuated with your child. He begs me every day to bring him over.” 

 

Nicki’s cheeks redden. He shoots his father a look of desperate embarrassment and hisses a single, whiny, “ _ Dad. _ ”

 

Harry glances at his watch. “Nora’s probably going to be up in a few minutes anyway, Nicki. Why don’t you go see if she’s ready to play?” He points Nicki in the direction of Nora’s bedroom, and watches with amusement as the boy hurries off to find her.

 

He turns back to Louis, and exhales a laugh. “Infatuated?” 

 

Louis nods. “Hasn’t stopped talking about his new friend since they met. It’d be problematic if it didn’t grant me an excuse to come barging into your home whenever a particularly powerful urge strikes.” 

 

And that hits Harry squarely in the chest, floods him with an overwhelming sense of fondness that is fast becoming familiar. He takes care to arrange his face into something of a neutral expression. “If it means you’ll provide both dinner  _ and _ entertainment for my child, I’m certainly not going to protest.” 

 

Louis blinks evenly. “Good. Expect us to become regulars around here, then.” He cocks a brow, taps a foot against the floor. “Now. How long must I stand here looking impatient before you offer me a tour of the place?” 

 

Harry laughs his disbelief. He raises his arms, and half-turns. “This, what you’re seeing right here, is pretty much the whole of it.” 

 

Seaglass eyes crinkle into a smile. “You have a bedroom, don’t you?” 

 

And, really. What the fuck is he supposed to do with that?

 

***

 

Harry thinks that maybe he’s pictured this moment so many times in his head, that the real thing feels like a dream. Like he’s sleepwalking, maybe. Or underwater. 

 

The room feels even smaller with Louis tucked inside it, just enough space for a double bed and a secondhand dresser, pilfered one lucky morning from a street corner. There’s not much else squeezed into the tiny space, no decoration or personalized touches, but it’s neat and orderly and a place that’s entirely  _ Harry’s _ . 

 

Louis studies the room is silence, eyes slowly roving over each object in turn, touching gently upon Harry’s clean, white duvet cover with light fingers and thumbing carefully over a chip on the dresser. 

 

Harry’s had Louis in his bedroom before, though it was a much different bedroom, and a very long time ago. He’s had Louis pressed between his sheets, nestled into his pillows. Harry latches onto the doorknob, roots himself to the spot. 

 

It’s so very different, but it’s also the same. 

 

The silence is suddenly too much for Harry. He needs to hear Louis’s voice, needs to know where his head’s at. “Tell me what you’re thinking,” he says, voice roughened with emotion. 

 

Louis turns slowly. He tips his chin upward, meets Harry’s eyeline. “I imagine it’s something very similar to yourself.” He smiles gently down at the bed, laughs a bit under his breath. “I can still feel your knee digging into my spine in that goddamn twin. Used to drive me fucking mental.” 

 

Harry remembers. His childhood bed, far too small for two teenage boys and so many desperate, flailing limbs. “I don’t know,” he says. “I have very fond memories of that bed.” 

 

“As do I. Your knee in my back just so happens to be one of them.” 

 

Harry ducks his head, and blushes fiercely. “You remember that night my mum caught you sneaking in through the window?” He raises his head to gauge Louis’s reaction. 

 

Louis’s face scrunches up in displeasure. He nods slowly, like it pains him to do so. “All too vividly. I couldn’t look Anne in the eye for, like, six months afterwards.” He exhales dramatically, wipes at a bead of imaginary sweat. “Even so. It could’ve been so much worse. We got lucky.” 

 

It’s something Harry used to think about often. Particularly when the nights Louis stayed over started to outnumber those when he did not. 

 

Even the memories (cold toes pressed into his shins, skinny arms wrapped suffocatingly tight around his middle, hot kisses and steady hands) warm his skin, heat his blood. 

 

“It could’ve been worse,” he agrees quickly. He shrugs, half-heartedly. “I always sort of thought she knew more than she let on. We were never particularly good at sneaking around, as it were.” 

 

There’s real heat in Louis’s gaze now, and Harry’s positive he isn’t just imagining it this time. There’s something distinctly sexual in the way his eyes narrow, in the elegant curve of his mouth. The mouth opens. “Yes, well. You always  _ were _ rather loud.” 

 

Harry’s knees almost give out.

 

Before he even has a chance to fully comprehend the words, Louis is turning his back on Harry, and recommitting his attention to the thorough investigation of Harry’s bedroom. He begins sifting animatedly through the closet, making tiny noises ranging from displeasure, to glee. 

 

He tips his head back to raise both eyebrows at Harry. “It’s not a travesty, mate, but we’ve certainly got some work to do.” He goes back to rifling. “I’ll send some things over with Liam for you to try on.” 

 

Harry looks mournfully down at the toothpaste stain rubbed into the fibers of his favorite jumper. He picks at the hem. “If I had known you were coming over, I would’ve dressed more appropriately.” 

 

At this, Louis abandons the closet, and strides over to Harry. He raises one hand, and promptly smacks Harry across the forehead. A wave of disbelief knocks Harry back a few steps. He presses his palm against the red spot, and exclaims an exaggerated, “ _ Ow!  _ What the bloody hell was  _ that _ for?” 

 

Louis frowns at him impatiently, both hands now occupied on either hip. “Don’t be absurd,” he orders. 

 

Harry’s eyes bug out of his head. “ _ I’m  _ the one being absurd? You  _ hit  _ me on the head!” 

 

Louis ignores him. “Do you really believe I have an issue with your clothing?” 

 

“Nearly every time I see you, you’re trying to force some overpriced designer labels into my lap. What reason would i have to think that?” The stinging subsides. Harry quits his rubbing, and returns his hand to his side. 

 

“I work in fashion,” Louis deadpans, speaking each word very slowly, as though Harry’s missing something very obvious. “I dress people  _ for a living _ . It doesn’t mean I expect you to throw on a ball gown whenever we see each other, you melodramatic prat.” 

 

And now Harry feels proper silly. Silly for allowing his feelings to be so easily hurt, silly for being so willing and anxious to please this man. He coughs, and it manifests itself into an awkward laugh. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” 

 

Louis sniffs importantly. “Don’t be  _ sorry _ . Just next time try to remember that I claimed the melodramatic thing as my own  _ ages  _ ago.” 

 

Somewhere in the next room, something crashes loudly to the floor, and shatters loud enough to be confused for gunfire. Both Harry and Louis start at the sound. 

 

“What the f--” Louis begins, trailing off as he strains to hear. 

 

Together, they race into Nora’s bedroom. Harry’s heart struggles painfully in his throat. He wrenches the door open with panicked hands, and comes to an abrupt halt as he assesses the scene. Behind him, Louis crashes into his backside. 

 

Nora and Nicki blink up at them in unison, guilt squirming plainly all over both of their faces. Beside them, Nora’s bedside clock lays in broken pieces all over the floor. Harry exhales his relief, feels Louis do the same against his shoulder. 

 

“Oh thank God,” he mutters, mostly to himself, though he can feel Louis nod his agreement. 

 

Tears brim in Nora’s eyes. Her bottom lip wobbles. “It was an accident, Daddy.” 

 

Louis sags against him. Harry touches his wrist reflexively, wraps long fingers around the fragile bones there, and holds the fuck on.

 

***

 

Harry sweeps the broken glass into a dustpan, and deposits the remains of Nora’s clock in the bin. He accepts her apology with as much grace as he can muster, warns her very sternly to be more careful next time, and promptly forgets about the entire incident. 

 

Louis helpfully herds the children back into the kitchen, and begins unpacking the takeaway boxes. Harry tracks down paper plates and plastic utensils, and arranges them into four place settings around the table. 

 

Dinner is a pleasant affair. The food--a favorite of Harry’s that he’s warmed to discover Louis remembers so clearly--is delicious, and the company even better. Each time Harry looks up from his plate to find Louis staring unabashedly back, his grin grows miraculously wider. It’s everything he’s wanted, with every aching bone and ragged breath in his body, since he was fourteen years old. 

 

It steals the breath from his lungs. The words from his tongue. The thought from his brain. 

 

And then, suddenly, dinner is over, and it’s getting late, and there are a thousand reasons--good,  _ rational _ reasons--for Louis to leave. The desperation claws at Harry, growing more and more pronounced as Louis gathers his things, and tucks Nicki into a warm, wool coat. 

 

He wants Louis to stay. He wants to grab his hand, wants to lead him back into his bedroom, and lock the door behind them. He might even be mad enough to try it, because there is a not-insignificant portion of Harry’s brain that suspects Louis may very well say yes. 

 

He walks Louis downstairs to the lobby, then follows him to his car without even thinking about it. He helps strap Nicki into his carseat, and allows Nora to crawl in after him to offer her tearful goodbyes. 

 

He almost says it then. A strangled  _ please don’t go _ , one that’s twenty years too late. He bites down on his tongue until he tastes blood on his teeth. 

 

“Thanks for dinner,” he says instead, because he has to say  _ something _ . “It was really lovely to see you.” 

 

Louis smiles sunnily up at him, crosses his ankles, and leans up against the car. The neckline of his sweater slips, exposing the striking hollows of his collarbones. “I assure you, it was entirely my pleasure.” He pauses for a moment, eyes soft and assessing. Then, finally, “I know I sort of disappeared on you for a few days, and I hated doing it.” 

 

Harry shakes off Louis’s apology immediately. “You were busy with work. Don’t worry about it. Seriously. I understand.” 

 

Louis shifts from one foot to the other. It’s the first time all night that he’s seemed even remotely nervous, and Harry’s interest peaks. 

 

“Right. Work,” he coughs, once, into the back of his hand. “Tomorrow night is the store launch gala. It’s everything we’ve been working towards for the past year.” His hand momentarily disappears into the pocket of his coat, then flashes back into existence clutching a thick square of paper. He holds it out to Harry. “I want you to be there.” 

 

It’s the kind of gesture that Harry’s stayed up at night envisioning in his head. There’s a stinging in the back of his throat now, as it becomes a reality. 

 

It takes every last ounce of strength he possesses to reject the invitation. He makes no movement to accept the paper, and eventually, Louis lets his arm fall. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “You’re under no obligation to come, of course. It’s very last minute. I’m sure you’ve already made plans for the day.” 

 

Without thinking, Harry places a palm on Louis’s chest to stop him, and keeps it there. He shakes his head firmly. “Of  _ course  _ I want to be there,” he breathes, pouring sincerity into every syllable. “It’s just…,” there are no words for how much he loathes himself right now. “It’s just that I have Nora all day tomorrow. There’s no way I can find a sitter on such short notice. And, besides, what would I wear to a  _ gala? _ ”

 

Louis has the audacity to smile weakly at that last bit. “You worry about the most  _ ridiculous  _ things, Harry Styles.”

 

Harry’s chest collapses in on itself. “You have no idea how much I want to go, how much I want to witness your success firsthand. I think about it all the time.” 

 

Louis’s eyes go wide. His lips part. “You do?”

 

Whoops. 

 

For once, Harry leans into the fear. Revels in it. “Well. I mean. I think about  _ you  _ all the time.” 

 

Silence hangs precariously between them, so quiet that it’s fucking  _ loud _ . And Harry’s hand is  _ still there _ , still pressing against the solid muscle of Louis’s chest, still digging into the fabric of his sweater with an urgency that scares him. 

 

“Daddy, when can Nicki come over again?” 

 

The silence, and everything it represents, is shattered. Nora climbs out of the vehicle, rubbing tiredly at her eyes, and frowning deeply at her father. Harry releases Louis immediately, and scoops her into his arms. Immediately, she buries her head in the crook of his neck. 

 

“Soon, love,” Harry tells her, though his eyes never leave Louis. “Very soon.” 

 

Louis seems frozen in place, his mouth still hanging partially open. A thousand different emotions battle for control of his features. Harry can’t tell which is winning. 

 

“I hope the gala is everything you dreamed it would be,” Harry concludes, meaning every word of it. “You’ve worked incredibly hard. I’ve no doubts that it will be perfect.” 

 

He unfreezes. Straightens his posture. Even manages a close-lipped grin. “Thank you. I appreciate that.” 

 

Harry clenches his hands into fists, and feels relief when his nails bite into flesh. “You’re welcome.”

 

***

 

The second he’s tucked Nora into bed, Harry is racing for the bathroom. He throws the door shut behind himself, and locks it for good measure. It’s pure instinct that drives him as he rips off his trousers, and slips out of his pants. He turns on the shower, raising the water temperature until it’s searing, and slips inside. 

 

He wraps a hand around himself immediately, and nearly blacks out under the force of his relief. He knows he won’t last long, can’t even remember the last time he was  _ this _ turned on. 

 

It’s over in seconds. Three hard strokes, and he’s coming into his hand. He places a stabilizing hand against the shower wall to keep himself upright. His knees shake like they could give out at any second. 

 

Harry sinks gracelessly to the shower floor. He drops his head into his hands, and allows himself to cry. 


	8. eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Always on my mind, too, H.

_ It’s the eyes that first snag Harry’s attention. That, if nothing else, he remembers quite clearly.  _

 

_ Because, if he’s being honest, the uniform is ill-fitting, and the shaggy, too-long hair isn’t exactly show-stopping. Not in the beginning, anyway. That comes much later.  _

 

_ No, it’s the eyes. Clear and blue and sparkling with a kind of superiority that Harry does not, strangely, find immediately off-putting.  _

 

_ There are levels and depths hidden within, and Harry wants to spend hours of his time discovering them.  _

 

_ He’s older. That much is obvious from the off. He swaggers like he’s been there done that, smiles at every living thing in a way that’s far too confident for an incoming student. There’s traces of aristocracy in the delicate flick of his wrist, in the beautiful bones of his ankles.  _

 

_ Naturally, Harry watches him all day. He seeks him out with his eyes in the corridors, follows behind him without thinking, until he’s in danger of being late to his next class and is forced to race across campus with a map of the grounds clutched to his chest. The fascination sets in like a fever--suspiciously quick and almost frighteningly forceful--and it only worsens from there.  _

 

***

 

Harry wakes up the following morning feeling crushed under the weight of his disappointment, and with some vague memory of a pleasant dream fading fast from the recesses of his mind. He slogs through his Sunday routine, preparing Nora’s breakfast, and settling her in front of the telly to watch her cartoons. With his daughter occupied, Harry hunkers down on the couch beside her, and opens his laptop. He taps a few buttons, pulls up his portfolio, and begins scrolling. 

 

He has to stop reading to drag both hands through his tangle of curls. He tries to remember the last time he wrote anything that made him genuinely proud, but nothing comes to mind. He suppresses the urge to repeatedly slam his head into a wall. 

 

Harry doesn’t notice Nora standing over his shoulder, until her curtain of blond hair begins tickling the side of his face. He turns his head to the side, smiles briefly at her curious eyes. “You need something, pet?” 

 

She shakes her head, but doesn’t move her eyes from the laptop screen. “What are you doing, Daddy?” 

 

Harry grimaces. “Working. Or, rather, trying to.” He sighs, long and drawn-out, and rubs tight circles into his temple. “It’s not going terribly well.” 

 

Nora scrunches up her little nose. “Why not?” 

 

It’s a simple question really, and it probably shouldn’t feel so accusatory coming from the mouth of a four year old. But it does. It stabs into Harry, into a place of deep-rooted insecurity that he was previously only partially aware of, and he suddenly feels defensive.

 

“I don’t know, Nora” he snaps, irritation swelling in an absurdly powerful way. 

 

The crestfallen look on her face immediately makes his stomach twist with guilt. He backpedals immediately. “You know how Daddy writes stories for a living?” he asks, in a far more even tone of voice. When she nods her head, he continues. “I want to write something new, but I can’t decide on what to write about.” 

 

The quizzical look has returned. Again, she demands, “Why not?”

 

_ Why not?  _ Harry considers, more seriously this time, tries flimsily to get to the truth of it. “Nothing feels important enough.” 

 

He knows immediately that he’s missed the mark. That’s not quite the problem. 

 

There’s a far more important, underlying truth that Harry is trying very hard to ignore. Because there  _ is  _ something that he wants to write about, the very same thing that’s been haunting his mind more or less continuously since it’s shocking reentrance into his life: Louis. 

 

Jesus fucking Christ, it’s bordering on obsession at this point. 

 

Harry sighs again, and closes the computer. He shoves it unceremoniously from his lap, knowing full and well that his mind is far too otherwise occupied to do any real work. 

 

That stupid gala. If Harry had only said goodbye at the door, and left it at that, he wouldn’t be pouting on a couch like a pathetic, lovesick puppy. 

 

 _Lovesick._ Love. Harry entire body cringes away from the word. Because he _knows_ how ridiculous it sounds. He _knows_ how positively laughable it is to even entertain the notion that his infatuation is anything more than it is. He knows all of this. 

 

And yet.

 

No. Absolutely no. Harry slams the door on that particular strain of thought, hard. He looks back to Nora, still watching him with an uncharacteristically focused interest. “I think I just need to take a break,” he tells her, offering an insincere smile. “Clear my head.” 

 

While Nora returns to her bedroom to play with her dolls, Harry steals away to the kitchen to put the kettle on. As the water heats, Harry’s fingers worry fixedly over the screen of his phone. He checks, then checks again for good measure. No new messages, no missed calls. No  _ I wish you could be there. I miss you. I want you.  _

 

The kettle sings. Harry pours water into a mug, and fixes his tea for something to do. He sips at it half-heartedly, wincing rather predictably as it scalds his tongue. He taps his foot, ticks off the minutes as they slog by. 

 

He’s crawling out of his fucking skin. In retrospect, the addition of caffeine on top of his current inability to remain still is probably not the best idea he’s ever come up with. 

 

So caught up in his own internal angsting, Harry nearly misses the knocking at his door. Suddenly surging with a newfound hope, he races to answer it. When he throws the door open, he is immediately struck with a wave of confusion. 

 

Because--

 

“Liam?” he clarifies. 

 

The brunette on the other side of the door grins brightly, and nods his head with enthusiasm. There’s a mess of items in his arms, almost spilling out, and Harry feels very strongly like there are too many things going on for him to properly understand it all.

 

He decides to begin with the obvious. “Er. Not that I’m not  _ pleased _ to see you, Liam, but what are you doing here?” 

 

Liam hands a garment bag off to Harry, still flashing far too many teeth. “Mr. Tomlinson sent me, naturally. Asked me to bring these over for you. He said you’d be needing them for the gala tonight.” 

 

Right. Now he’s properly confused. 

 

“But I’m not going to the gala,” he says dumbly, still not understanding. “I explained all of this to Louis yesterday. I have no one to watch my daughter on such short notice.”

 

Liam’s smile doesn’t falter an inch. He whips out a thick, black notebook, turns a few pages, and produces a sleek business card. “Mr. Tomlinson’s personal sitter. He comes highly recommended, and he’s already been hired for the evening.” 

 

Harry frowns down at the business card.  _ Niall Horan _ , he reads.  _ Professional Manny.  _

 

Unsure of what to say, Harry instead tactlessly blurts, “I wasn’t aware that professional babysitting was a full-time occupation.” 

 

“Oh yes,” Liam affirms cheerily. “He stays quite busy. I could give you a list of references if that would make you feel more comfortable?” He rifles through the notebook once more, and produces a sheet of stark-white paper. 

 

Harry accepts it without protest, scans quickly through the rather long list of names, telephone numbers, and personal comments. It’s all, frankly, impressive, but Harry still feels uneasy. He trusts Louis, truly, but this involves Nora.

 

“I’m not sure,” he says unevenly, eyes still picking through the list, and zeroing in on the more prominent names. “I’ve never met this Niall person before.” 

 

Liam nods his understanding. “Mr. Tomlinson guessed you might still have some very reasonable concerns about a stranger watching your child. He arranged for Mr. Horan to come early, so that you two would have the opportunity to talk before you make any decisions.”

 

Louis, it seems, has thought of everything. 

 

Straining beneath two competing voices in his head, Harry reluctantly says, “I suppose...that would be alright.” He swallows. “And only if Nora feels comfortable without me.” 

 

“Of course.” There is a final square of paper in his hand, one that Harry recognizes immediately. Liam holds it out in offering, and Harry instinctively reaches for it. 

 

The invitation feels heavy in his hands. Harry stares at it, almost in awe. Because, suddenly, there is a very real possibility that he can actually  _ use  _ it, can actually back up everything he had told Louis last night. 

 

He turns the invitation over, and his breath catches in his throat. The six words scrawled there stop up his throat. 

 

_ Always on my mind, too, H.  _

 

***

 

It’s nearly five o’clock when there’s a second rapping at the door. Harry’s in his bedroom going through the items that Louis had sent over for him to wear that evening when he first hears the polite knocking. He hurries to answer the door, stopping to check in on Nora, who is still calmly playing with her dolls. 

 

On the other side of the door, stands a cherubic blonde with wide, blue eyes and an easy smile. He bustles inside the flat without waiting for an invitation, dragging a small suitcase in behind him. 

 

“Um,” Harry says, a bit startled by his forwardness. “Hello.” 

 

Immediately, the blonde turns his brilliant smile on Harry. “Evenin’, mate,” he greets enthusiastically. “You must be Harry.” He extends a hand, takes up one of Harry’s, and gives it a long, firm shake. “‘M Niall. Great to meet you.” 

 

“You too?” it comes out as an uncertain squeak, so he clears his throat and tries again. “So you work for Louis, then?” 

 

Niall bobs his head of intricately-styled hair. “I’ve been Nicki’s primary sitter for about five years now, and I’ve become close with the entire family. Naturally, when Louis asked me to do him this favor, I jumped all over it.” He looks around, eyes searching. “Where  _ is  _ the little lass? I’d love to meet her.” 

 

“Nora!” Harry calls out. “Come out here, please.” 

 

She responds immediately, skipping obediently into the living room, and still clutching one of her dolls to her chest. Her hair, a mess of unbrushed and out of control curls, has slipped from the elastic and falls in unruly ringlets around her face. Her eyes zero in on the stranger in her doorway, and she suddenly slows, hesitates. 

 

“Nora, darling,” Harry says softly. “This is Niall. He came over to meet you today. Can you come and say hello?” 

 

Niall crouches down to her eye level, and favors her with a friendly and welcoming grin. “Hi there, beautiful,” he says, quite gently. “It’s lovely to meet you.” He notices the doll for the first time, and makes a sharp noise of delight. “What a darling little doll you have! Does she have a name?” 

 

Nora shyly meets his eye, her cheeks warming ever so slightly with color. She holds out the doll to him, allowing him to study it up close. “Her name is Diana,” she tells him, very seriously. “Like the princess.” 

 

Niall does a series of oohs and awes at this new information, as he turns the doll over and over in his hands. “Well, of course! What a fantastic name you’ve chosen.” He returns the doll to Nora, who is unable to stop her lips from spreading into a small, close-lipped grin, and gestures to the rolling suitcase beside him. “I brought some odds and ends from my own house that I’d  _ love _ to show you, if you’re interested?” 

 

The shy curiosity melts away, replaced by a naked look of intrigue. Nora’s eyes light up with the kind of excitement that tugs painfully at the strings of Harry’s heart. “Yes, please!” she decides quickly, and then she’s darting forward to take one of Niall’s hands into both of her own, and dragging him in the direction of her bedroom. 

 

Harry follows them, a few paces behind, and leans against the doorframe as the two begin talking animatedly about the toys Niall had brought. He’s not sure he’s ever seen his daughter take to some quite this fast, nor ever so willing to share her possessions. The anxiety--most of it, anyway--drains from his chest, leaving in its place an overwhelming sense of relief. 

 

Because, this could  _ work.  _

 

“I think,” he voices aloud, still slow and cautious, “that this might be okay.” He addresses his daughter directly this time, and adds, “That is, if it’s one hundred percent alright for Niall to stay here with you tonight, while Daddy goes to Louis’s party?” 

 

She barely even takes the time to look at him, and her response is fast and without thought. “It’s great!” 

 

Niall offers him a genuine, consoling smile. “I can text you every half hour with updates? And, naturally, you have all my information if you feel the need to call and check in.”

 

After a long minute, Harry nods. “Yes, I think that will be fine.” He pauses, looks to Nora again, eyes narrowed and assessing. He nods again, more firmly. “I won’t be out late,” he promises them both. “And I’ll call before Nora goes to bed.” 

 

“Absolutely,” Niall puts in smoothly. “Now, please, run off and get dressed. I can take it from here.” 

 

And, amazingly, Harry believes him. 


	9. nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Harold. Look at you. You’re a vision.” He runs his eyes lazily up and down Harry’s frame. “I really do have exceptional taste, don’t I?”

The entire room, high ceilings and marble flooring, is draped in shades of black, white, and red. Tables covered in flowing fabrics are arranged in an appealing semi-circle, around a romantically lit dance floor where several couples are already engaged in rather complicated-looking waltzes. And everywhere-- _ everywhere _ \--mannequins are expensively draped in Alexander McQueen designs and positioned all around the room. Harry can hardly turn around without tripping over one. He studies the garments with a newfound appreciation, fingers subconsciously tugging at the lapels of his own suit jacket. 

 

The material feels thick and expensive beneath his touch. The dark, two piece suit is covered in a classic design of thick, grey and black pinstripes. Underneath the jacket, Louis’s dressed him in a high-collared, cream-colored silk blouse that is practically transparent. The deep black ink of his chest tattoos is visible through the fine material, and Harry is suddenly and incredibly suspicious that this was his carefully crafted master plan all along. 

 

Speaking of--

 

Louis is nowhere to be seen. Of course, Harry can’t be sure in this poor lighting, and with so many finely dressed people swanning all around the room and looking absolutely identical to one another. But the fact remains that Harry cannot locate Louis, and without a familiar face in sight, he feels utterly out of place. He’s sure that he doesn’t know another soul here. 

 

His hands twitch nervously at his sides. His pocket vibrates, and Harry reaches automatically for his phone. A relaxed exhale escapes his chest as he opens up a text message update from Niall. Satisfied that Nora is still doing quite well with Niall, Harry makes a split-second decision to stop standing awkwardly in the entryway, and instead heads in the direction of the sleek, black bar situated off to one side of the room. 

 

He orders a glass of champagne, and accepts the glittering flute from the bartender with a quick smile of thanks. He takes a tiny sip, enjoys the rush of warmth and the pleasant bubbles as they settle in his stomach. He leans casually against the bar, drinking his champagne for something to do, and continues scanning the room for any sign of Louis. 

 

“Aren’t  _ you _ just positively edible,” comes a low drawl from somewhere near Harry’s ear. 

 

Harry turns, startled, to find himself eye to eye with a heavily-lidded man in a dark suit. A single, long tendril of black hair dances tantalizingly before his eyes, and full lips pull back into a feral smile. He is both beautiful and terrifying at the same time, and Harry feels immediately intimidated by his elegant bone structure and predatory stance. 

 

“Er,” comes Harry’s brilliant answer. “Sorry?” 

 

The man steps closer, pushing fearlessly into Harry’s personal space. He angles his face upwards, dark eyes sparkling with amusement. “What’s your name, beautiful? I want to get it right for when I’m screaming it later.” 

 

Harry spits champagne onto the floor. “ _ What? _ ” 

 

A second man slips into Harry’s vision, one with softer features and a comforting smile. “Oh, dear,” Liam says in an apologetic sort of way. He puts an arm around the first man’s waist, and draws him gently backwards. “You’ve traumatized Mr. Tomlinson’s VIP guest, Zayn. Are you proud of yourself?” 

 

The predatory man--Zayn--pouts prettily. He wraps both arms around Liam, and leans into his touch with a familiarity that is starting to make sense. “It was just too tempting. Did you see his face just now? Priceless.” 

 

Harry looks accusingly between the pair. He reaches for a napkin, and begins mopping up the champagne still dripping from his chin. “I’m sorry, I just want to make sure I’m getting this right. You were just messing with me?” 

 

Zayn presses his lips together, kisses noisily at Harry. “Don’t be angry, love. I still think you’re a pretty little thing.” When Liam huffs an offended noise, Zayn presses his mouth against the other man’s cheekbone. “Not half as pretty as you, of course.” 

 

Harry opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again. “So, Liam,” he says finally, and with a touch of poorly concealed annoyance. “Who’s your friend?” 

 

Liam chuckles, watching the man wrapped around him with a giddy fondness. “This incorrigible flirt is my fiance, Zayn. He fancies himself something of a comedian. I’ll just go ahead and apologize on his behalf.” 

 

Zayn nods his head, and gives a dramatic wink. “The pleasure is entirely mine, I assure you.” 

 

“Liam,” comes a third voice, from somewhere behind Harry’s head. “I do believe I told you that if you brought your pet to  _ my _ gala, you were to keep him on his leash at all times.” 

 

Harry freezes at the sound of his voice. Liam blushes sheepishly, and ducks his head in apology. “A momentary lapse, Mr. Tomlinson. I promise not to leave his side for the rest of the evening.” 

 

Harry turns very slowly, a manic grin already spreading across his face. And then,  _ finally _ , there’s Louis, eyes glimmering and alcohol-bright. He looks all-too comfortable in a perfectly tailored, cherry red suit that ties in perfectly with the decor. Both hands are dressed up with heavy, elaborate rings. His hair is pushed off of his forehead, styled in a sleek, professional manner that has Harry’s fingers itching to run through the carefully gelled strands. 

 

He’s blurry around the edges, probably from too many drinks and a spill of unadulterated excitement, but his answering smile is warm and steadying. “Harold. Look at you. You’re a vision.” He runs his eyes lazily up and down Harry’s frame. “I really do have  _ exceptional  _ taste, don’t I?” 

 

“Think much of yourself, do you?” Harry asks drily, but he can’t deny the licks of fire in his chest, and the heartbeat in his throat at the compliment. 

 

“I think quite a lot of  _ you _ in that suit,” Louis answers boldly, eyes narrowed in an entirely inappropriate smoulder. 

 

From another world entirely, Harry just barely hears Zayn complain, “But why is  _ he  _ allowed to say those things?” 

 

Liam hushes him quickly.

 

“I’m so glad that you’re here,” Louis continues, eyes crinkling. “I mean, I know I sort of orchestrated a scenario in which you really weren’t given much of a choice, but I’m still glad that you’re here.” 

 

“Me too,” Harry says earnestly. “This place...it’s  _ unbelievable _ , Lou. You should be so proud of yourself.”

 

For a long moment, Louis says nothing, just stares at Harry through wet, shining eyes. After an eternity of tense silence, he extends a hand. “Would you do me the honor of joining me for a dance?” 

 

Harry blinks for a moment, caught a little off-guard by the abrupt request. But his surprise is very quickly replaced with a deeply rooted pleasure that thrums like electricity under his skin, and through his veins. He knits his fingers through Louis’s, tries to hide their trembling. 

 

He follows obediently behind as Louis leads him through the tightly-packed throngs of finely dressed men and women, and to the center of the makeshift dance floor. The dancing couples from earlier have multiplied, and Harry has to press closer to Louis to keep from being trampled by the crowd. He doesn’t actually mind. 

 

For an awkward moment, Harry is entirely unsure of what to do with his arms. The last time he slow-danced with someone was with James at their wedding, and this revelation is nothing short of mortifying as he flails desperately for the appropriate hand placement. Louis watches him for only a moment, before he’s smoothly intervening. He wraps an arm snug around Harry’s waist, drawing him in dangerously close, and moves Harry’s free hand to his own shoulder. Harry tries to telepathically communicate his thanks.

 

Louis takes a step, then another. Harry follows, or tries to, and after a few minutes, starts to think he’s actually getting the hang of this whole dancing thing. It’s not so bad, afterall. Certainly not when it affords him such an excellent excuse to be this close to Louis, right in his personal space. So close, that he can tell every last eyelash apart. So close, that he can make out the soft, practically invisible fibers of hair on the skin of Louis’s face. 

 

He thinks Louis might be affected by all of this, too, if the strained way he keeps breathing is any indication, or the sharp flaring of his nostrils. His eyes keep fluttering, without subtlety, back and forth between Harry’s eyes, and his mouth. 

 

It feels like it’s been hours since one of them last said a word, and try as he might, Harry can’t come up with a single thing to say. Even more distressing, his mouth has gone desert dry, and his tongue feels so heavy that it’s become complete deadweight. He’s floundering, and very possibly squandering the first  _ real _ opportunity he’s had with Louis in twenty years. 

 

And, also, he’s sweating buckets all over these fancy, expensive clothes that Louis had so kindly procured for him. 

 

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Louis says, dislodging Harry from his thoughts and pulling him back into reality. He frowns, and his forehead creases adorably. “You looked lost there for a minute.” 

 

Harry feels fuzzy, like he’s going in and out of focus. He tries to focus, tries to find his tongue. “I was just...trying to take it all in.” It’s not completely a lie, but it isn’t the entire truth either. 

 

Louis cocks his head to one side. “Too much?” 

 

Harry shakes his head. “No. It’s perfect. It’s everything I’ve ever wished for you.” 

 

He thinks maybe there’s a hint of moisture in Louis’s eyes. Louis ducks his head, uncharacteristically bashful. He pauses, almost stops dancing altogether, before he finally raises his head to admit, “Yes, well. It’s  _ almost _ everything I’ve ever wished for.” 

 

Harry’s lungs collapse in his chest. He stumbles, but Louis’s arms hold fast around him, keeping him upright. Behind them, the song ends, and the orchestra slips offstage for a break. Still, they are frozen, eyes locked, arms wrapped tight around one another. 

 

It’s Louis who unfreezes first. He unwinds his arms, reaches for Harry’s hand, and yanks him bodily off the dance floor. The room is so dark that he can hardly see where he’s being led to. Louis must have some idea, because before Harry knows it, he is being propelled towards a closed door, half-hidden behind an enormous tapestry. Louis pulls a slim, silver key from his jacket pocket, slips it soundlessly into the lock, and shoulders his way inside. 

 

Fingers still locked, painfully-tight, around Harry’s wrist, Louis drags them both further into the dark room, and flings the door shut behind them. Harry’s mouth falls open, but before he can force any words out, he’s being thrown backwards into the nearest unoccupied wall.

 

And then, all at once, Louis is on him. 

 

For several moments, Harry is too stunned to react. He sags limply against the wall as Louis’s mouth comes crashing into his. His hands catch on before his brain does. He presses both palms on either side of Louis’s neck, acting purely out of instinct, and squeezes his eyes shut. 

 

He tastes champagne on Louis’s breath, pleasant and warm, and he feels fingers pressing into his hips, hard enough to bruise. It’s only when Louis’s tongue pushes into his mouth, that Harry finally understands. That he finally wakes out of his trance. 

 

He kisses Louis back with an urgency that has him trembling, zipping like electricity from his fingers to his toes. He’s only half-aware of what exactly is happening here--time is moving a mile a minute, and he’s struggling to keep up--but he knows it the second he starts to get hard. 

 

Louis must notice, too, because when he manages to momentarily tear himself away from Harry’s mouth, his pupils are blown, and his mouth is a red, wet smirk. He pushes his thigh between Harry’s legs, and brings their foreheads together. “ _ Fuck _ ,” he hisses, so quiet Harry has to read his lips to catch it. “Hard for me, H?” 

 

Harry starts moving, chasing any relief he can get by rutting desperately against Louis’s thigh, and an obscene moan tears its way out of his throat. He manages a breath of a response, just a breathy, half-coherent, “Only you.” 

 

The answer must be good enough for Louis, because his mouth immediately travels to Harry’s neck, and latches onto his pulse point. Harry’s knees almost give out at the new contact. His hands slip from Louis’s face, and wrap instead around his shoulders, hanging on with everything he has. 

 

It’s short—embarrassingly short—and all it takes is the pressure of Louis’s clothed thigh and a few whispered encouragements, but when Harry comes, he sees stars. The relief is so powerful that tears gather in the corners of his eyes. He slumps, entirely spent, against Louis’s smaller frame. Their lips meet slowly, languidly. Like all they have is time. 

 

And is it really so foolish to believe that maybe now, after all this time, they finally do?

 

When they pull apart, Louis sighs, deep and contented. His lips spread into a blissed-out grin. “Goddamn, H. Who taught you to kiss like that?” 

 

Harry stutters out a weak laugh. “Picked up a thing or two in our time apart.”

 

Louis traces the outline of Harry’s lips with his thumb. “Everytime I think I’ve got you figured out, Styles, you go and do something like  _ that _ .” 

 

He kisses him again, longer and more drawn out, but this time when he pulls away, he lets go. Harry’s arms reach out instinctively, but Louis steps carefully out of his reach. When Harry pulls a face at the sudden lack of contact, Louis’s smiles more firmly.

 

There’s something about his smile that seems...off. Harry can’t quite put a name to what it is. Deciding it’s nothing, he doesn’t say anything. 

 

“I need to sober up,” Louis murmurs, mostly to himself. Then, to Harry, he continues, “If I don’t get back to my party soon, Liam will come looking for me. And believe me when I say, we  _ don’t  _ want that.” 

 

Harry’s fully pouting now, but he can’t bring himself to care. Finally,  _ finally _ , he has Louis right where he wants him, and he’s letting him slip away. He’s not sure if he’ll ever forgive himself if he allows this boy to escape him for a second time. 

 

“Stay,” Harry whispers. His long fingers find the delicate bones of Louis’s wrist in the dark. “Please stay with me, Lou.” 

 

Louis chuckles airily under his breath. He reclaims his wrist in a smooth, gentle motion. “I’ll come back. Haven’t I proven that already?” 

 

It took twenty years to get him back. Harry’s not sure he can stand to wait much longer. 

 

He bites his tongue, suppresses the desperation building up in his throat, and decides that the easiest course of action is to simply agree, “Yes,” he says finally, “You have.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> drop a comment or kudo if you enjoyed!! thank you all xx.


	10. ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He never meant for it to end up this way.

 

_ He remembers the first time exactly as it was: awkward, fumbling, and positively wonderful.  _

 

_ He remembers pulling the hood of his jacket low over his eyes while in line to check out, squirming and sweating because the only item in his hands was a box of condoms. He remembers Louis, a steady and smug presence behind him, pinching him and giggling into his shoulder and just generally enjoying himself way too much. _

 

_ He remembers the confident way Louis had slid a few bills into the cashier’s hand, and the unaffected smile he had offered the customers waiting in line behind them. He remembers Louis taking his hand, right there in the middle of the store, and leading him out into the late afternoon sunlight.  _

 

_ He remembers being asked--once, twice, three times--if he was sure, if he was ready. He remembers the strange sensations, and the overwhelmed tears brimming in his eyes. He remembers leaving his body, then returning to it some time later.  _

 

_ Your first love isn’t supposed to be your last. But wouldn’t it be so much simpler if it was?  _

 

-

 

It’s early when Harry wakes up, early enough that the sun still hasn’t made an appearance in the sky, and the world around him is peaceful and silent. He’s flat on his back and completely motionless, and for several long, delicious minutes, he allows memories of the previous night to come flooding back to him. 

 

He smiles unconsciously. His entire body warms at the reminder of Louis’s hands, and Louis’s mouth, and the wrecked way Louis’d whispered Harry’s name during, and then again after. He wants to relive every second of it, over and over again. He wants to stay right here and let the memory burn through him like a fever. 

 

Harry lies still for a second longer, then he forces himself up and out of bed. 

 

He grabs his phone from the dresser, and is momentarily disappointed to discover no new notifications from Louis, then decides he’s being ridiculous. It’s early, and Louis had a long night. He’s probably not even awake yet. 

 

Harry leaves all the lights off as he wanders into the kitchen, padding quietly past Nora’s room on bare feet so as not to wake her. He switches on the coffee pot, and hums to himself while he waits for the water to heat. He crosses the room to the fridge and scans the shelves for something to eat. There’s a bottle of red wine almost completely hidden at the back of the top shelf--he can’t even remember how long ago he purchased it or even why--and the sight of it makes him giddy.

 

When was the last time he felt like this? Singing in the kitchen, and happy for no reason. He can’t remember. It’s probably been a lot longer than he’d rather care to admit. 

 

He’s pulled, regrettably, from his thoughts by a short, quiet knocking at the door. For a few hopeful seconds, Harry thinks it might be Louis waiting for him on the other side. His momentary swell of excitement recedes once he realizes that it’s only James, come to pick Nora up and take her home. 

 

Feeling guilty at his own disappointment, Harry tries for a smile. He invites James inside with a wide sweep of his hand. The tension between them remains as strained and palpably uncomfortable as ever, and that on top of his unease about Louis feels like a weight upon his chest. 

 

“She’s not up yet,” Harry offers quietly, when James doesn’t say anything first. “I didn’t expect you so early, otherwise I would’ve been more prepared.”

James shrugs out of his tailored, wool jacket. He shifts restfully from foot to foot, staring at the floor and noticeably avoiding making eye contact. “It’s fine,” he says shortly. “I can wait a little while.” 

 

Harry nods. He chews at his bottom lip, searching for something to say. Finally, he says, “I just made coffee, if you’re interested?” 

 

James looks up. His eyes, though distant, are kind. “That sounds really lovely actually.” 

 

Together, they enter the kitchen. James climbs up onto a section of countertop and spreads his legs. While Harry pours the coffee into two mugs, he watches as James quietly surveys the room. Harry realizes, with a start, that James has never seen the majority of his flat. Something about that thought is strangely upsetting. 

 

He hands over one of the mugs, then moves to lean against the opposite countertop. He doesn’t know what the right thing to say is, but the prolonged silence is making him nervous. 

 

More than anything else, Harry wants to close this awful distance. He hates feeling like enemies rather than friends, or at the very least, co-parents. He hates that he can’t even make eye contact with one of the most important people in his life. 

 

He never meant for it to end up this way. 

 

He needs to fix this. He needs to try. It’s an effort to navigate around the lump stopping up his throat, but eventually Harry manages a choppy and strained, “I’m sorry.” 

 

James’s head jerks upwards at that, and the surprise is obvious in his widened eyes and slackened jaw. “You’re...what?” 

 

This time when Harry says it, it’s clear and much more forceful than before. “I’m  _ sorry _ .” 

 

This only serves to confuse James further. “For what?” 

 

Harry blows out a breath of frustration, because he knows this shouldn’t be so hard. “Christ, James, I don’t know. A lot of things, I suppose. Ruining our marriage, for starters. Calling so many times when I knew I shouldn’t. Not getting on with Rick.” He takes a deep breath, preparing for the next one. “For not being honest with you about Louis.”  

 

James flinches, looking a bit stung at the reminder. He exhales a shaky breath. “That’s a lot of things to be sorry about.” 

 

“I mean it. All of it. And I should’ve told you sooner.” He runs a hand through his hair, shakes his head. “Maybe if I had, things would be different between us. Maybe they’d be better.” 

 

James blinks. “Do you seriously believe that all of the blame is yours?”

 

Harry shifts from one foot to the other. He abandons his mug, untouched, on the countertop, and stuffs both hands into his pockets. “A lot of it, I’d reckon. Most of it.” 

 

James’s face falls. He nods dejectedly. “That makes sense, since I’ve been acting like such a prick these past few weeks. These past few years, actually.” He, too, sets his coffee aside, and lifts his eyes to level with Harry’s. 

 

“You were angry,” Harry counters quietly. “It’s understandable.” 

 

James snorts. “I was  _ jealous _ , Harry. While we were married, all through the divorce. Even now, when you ring my phone at fuck-all in the morning to blither away about the man you’ve always wanted more than me.” 

 

And he wants to counter that, wants to tell James that he’s  _ wrong.  _ But the words stick in his throat. He knows what the truth is, even if he’s never really heard the words roll so casually off of James’s tongue. 

 

When he doesn’t immediately say anything, James presses on. “Listen to me, Harry, because this next part is important.” He shuffles closer. “I’ve been acting worse than our four-year-old since you told me about seeing Louis again. I’ve been petty and I’ve been mean, because it  _ still  _ hurts to know that for as much as I once loved you, it was never quite enough.”  He smiles. “But I’m done with all that now. I can’t linger on old wounds forever. And besides, I have Rick now.” 

 

For the very first time, Harry doesn’t visibly grimace at the name. 

 

James chucks him under the chin. “We’re far too old for all this drama. I’m sorry for my part in it.” He extends a hand. “Truce?” 

 

A broad smile spreads across Harry’s face. He shakes James’s hand with as much enthusiasm as he can muster. “Truce,” he agrees firmly, feeling lighter than he has in months. 

 

James drops his hand, and returns to his earlier position on the countertop. He leans back with a newly relaxed air, and lets out a loud breath. “Well there’s a relief,” he says. “Maybe now we can get back to what we’re actually good at: being friends.” 

 

Harry’s eyes are wet as he says, “I think that’s a brilliant idea.” He swipes away a stray tear, and takes a long sip of his coffee to dislodge the lump in his throat. When he finishes, James is still watching him very carefully. 

 

“Now that we’re back on speaking terms,” he begins, teasingly, “there’s something I’ve been meaning to bring up with you.” 

 

Harry motions for him to continue.

 

Something unreadable passes in front of James’s eyes. “Louis.” 

 

Harry expects the tension, expects confrontation and yelling. When it doesn’t come, he’s almost unsure of what to do. He’s not used to calmly discussing this particular topic with his ex-husband. After an extended moment of absolute silence, Harry asks, “What about him?”

 

James raises both eyebrows, and tips his chin upwards. “Quit playing coy, Harry Styles. You  _ know _ what I want to hear about.”

 

Harry clears his throat to stall. In a quiet, measured voice, he says, “We’re not together or anything, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

 

“How not together?” 

 

Harry briefly flashes to the previous night. His stomach flips, not unpleasantly, and he feels heat rushing to his cheeks. He hangs his head in a doomed effort to hide his red face. “We’re friends. We’ve been catching up.”

 

“How often do you see him?” 

 

That one’s trickier, because the honest answer is  _ as much as he can _ , but Harry certainly doesn’t want to tell James that. He finally settles on, “A few times a week,” then cringes because, if anything, that might actually be worse. More specific, like he’s been keeping count. 

 

James, oddly, seems amused by this, if his suppressed laughter is anything to go on. Harry bristles a bit. “What’s funny?”

 

The laughter cuts out immediately. “It’s not funny, really,” James says, adopting a much more serious tone. “But I’m being supportive now, remember? And you’re obviously just as mad about him as the day we met. Maybe more.” 

 

Harry swallows hard. “I should’ve been honest with you, from the beginning. I should’ve…well, so many things, I guess.” He shakes his head, tries to convey his sincerity through his words and his eyes. “I really, genuinely believed that I would stop...feeling the way I was feeling, if I tried hard enough. If I fell in love with someone else.”

 

When James smiles now, it’s rueful. “I know that. Even when I was frustrated and angry and jealous, I still knew that. Shit, maybe I should’ve accepted defeat and cut you loose a long time ago.” 

 

Harry hates the swell of tears in his eyes, and the sting of regret burning in his throat. He fights against it as he says, “I really, really loved you, James. I still do.” 

 

“Just not enough to make our marriage work,” James adds, though his eyes are warm and teasing. “Just not more than you love  _ him. _ ”

 

And there it is, tossed so casually out into the open. Said aloud for the first time in ages, and with unwavering certainty. 

 

“No,” Harry concedes gently. “Not more than I love him.” 

 

James nods, like he was expecting this. “Then what’s the problem? Why aren’t you together?” 

 

“It’s not that simple,” and Harry has to try very hard not to become frustrated. “There are a million new factors to consider. It’s been twenty years since we were even remotely on the same page.” 

 

“As I recall,” James begins calmly, “twenty years ago, Louis decided to pursue an ill-fated acting career in LA. And yet, here he is, in London, all this time later.” 

 

“What’s your point?”

 

James half-shrugs. “The timing wasn’t right for you then. Maybe it’s finally right for you now.”

 

Goosebumps rise along the skin of Harry’s arms. “Like I said, it’s just not that simple.” 

 

“So what’s your plan?” And  _ now _ , James sounds irritated. He dismounts from the countertop, and crosses both arms over his chest. “You’re going to do nothing? You’re going to waste  _ another _ twenty years pining for a man that’s right fucking in front of you?”

 

Harry’s mouth falls open. 

 

“There’s a reason you’ve been stuck on ‘im for all this time, Harry. There  _ has  _ to be. Otherwise, what the hell was the point of our disaster of a marriage?” 

 

Harry struggles under the implication of these words. “Are you actually,” he pauses, lifts a brow, “ _ encouraging  _ me to pursue this?” 

 

The corners of James’s lips twitch. “Truce, remember? I’m being supportive. Or,” he grins sheepishly, “trying to, at least. How am I doing?”

 

Harry laughs nervously. “You’re freaking me out is how you’re doing.”  

 

James places two steadying hands on Harry’s shoulders, and squeezes forcefully. “Do you want to live a life of regrets, Harry Styles, or do you want to stand up and demand more for yourself? Because if you let him get away again, I swear to god, I’m going to have to kick your arse.”

 

This punches a louder, more confident breath of laughter from Harry’s chest. He pulls James in closer, and wraps his arms around him, as tight as they’ll go. The embrace is short, only lasting a second or two, but it’s a major first on their road to recovery, and Harry is smiling broadly when he pulls away. “Thank you,” he murmurs. 

 

James returns the grin with one of his own. He touches his thumb to Harry’s cheek, one final second of contact, before turning his back and heading towards Nora’s room. “Anytime,” he throws nonchalantly back. “Now, where’s our daughter?” 

 

Harry listens from the kitchen as Nora wakes and sleepily greets James. Momentarily alone, he reaches into his front pocket, and withdraws his phone. 

 

He taps determinedly at the phone until he reaches Louis’s contact. He hesitates only a moment before his thumb is sliding over the name, and he’s pressing the phone up to his ear. 

 

Harry’s stomach drops when Louis’s voicemail clicks on. 


	11. eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry’s fingers brush lightly against the front pocket of his trousers, over the place where his phone is stored. Anxiety twists like a knife in his chest, a painful and unwelcome reminder that something is indisputably wrong between him and Louis, and he has no idea what it could be. He’s done something, or missed something, and it’s the uncertainty of it all that’s eating away at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends. It's exam season once again, so if updates come a touch late for the next few weeks, I apologize sincerely. Happy reading, thank you for your continued support xx.

The relief of having James back on his side and back in his life is quickly overshadowed and replaced by Harry’s growing anxiety at Louis’s sudden and unexplained absence. Desperate for a distraction and an excuse to leave his bedroom for the first time in days, Harry throws himself into preparing for the job interview he’d managed to scrounge with  _ The London Reporter _ .

 

Wednesday, the morning of his interview, dawns cold and grey. Harry can’t help but morbidly accept this as a reflection of his mood. He dresses quickly and carelessly, checking his phone obsessively at every interval, and becoming newly upset each time. 

 

If he thinks too hard or for too long, Harry’s thoughts become a terrifying mess of uncertainty and insecurity. That smile, that strange, off-putting smile that should’ve been a red flag from the off, is all Harry can see when he makes the mistake of closing his eyes. He feels stupid--stupid and pathetic--for allowing himself to get so worked up over a few days without Louis, like he’s an addict, desperately searching for another hit. 

 

His head feels cloudy, even as he greets his interviewer, a middle-aged senior editor with greying hair and tired eyes named Richard. He follows Richard into a tiny, hyper-organized office located at the very back of a noisy, crowded newsroom, and struggles to concentrate. 

 

Richard takes a seat in a plush, leather desk chair, and relaxes back. He grabs for a file folder lying open on his desk, and begins flipping through several loose sheets of paper very quickly. Harry silently takes the markedly less comfortable chair on the opposite side of the desk. 

 

Apparently finished, Richard finally speaks, “Thank you for meeting with me today,” he consults the top sheet in the folder briefly, “Harry.” 

 

Harry forces a weak, watery smile. “Thank you for contacting me about my application. I’m grateful for the opportunity to talk in person.” 

 

There. That sounded like a reasonable, measured response. For a brief moment, Harry wonders if he might actually be able to pull this off. He sits straighter in his chair, and clasps his hands together in preparation. 

 

Richard, for his part, looks mostly unimpressed by Harry’s cookie-cutter response. His eyes flit back to the folder. “You were employed at  _ The Local Observer _ for a several years, up until a few months ago. Is that accurate?” 

 

This part of the interview is unavoidable, Harry knows, but the question still digs like fingernails into his skin, and he can’t help but shift uncomfortably in his chair. He crosses and uncrosses his legs, and avoids direct eye contact. “Yes,” he starts, a bit robotically. “I did feature pieces, and the occasional profile, for about five years with them. Before that, I freelanced a bit, sold several stories to magazines, and played around with the idea of writing a novel.” 

 

“And how did your professional career with  _ The Local Observer _ end?” 

 

Straight in, then. 

 

Harry remembers, all too clearly, dodging this same bit of information in the coffee shop with Louis. It feels just the same now; a bundle of raw, unprocessed feelings of hurt and shame that for months now he’s been struggling to ignore with assistance from unhealthy amounts of red wine, and the messy, time-consuming aspects of his divorce from James. 

 

The words still feel dirty, maybe even taboo, and the prospect of saying them aloud is doing nothing to improve this already rather shit morning. 

 

The silence has been stretching on for too long. He wrangles the cheeriest, most optimistic demeanor he possesses, and explains as briefly as he can, “The paper was starting to go under. Too many writers, not enough money. I hadn’t been employed as long as some of my coworkers, so it made sense that I was one of the first to be let go.” 

 

Richard nods, short and perfunctory, but doesn’t look up. He adjusts a pair of wire-framed glasses on the bridge of his nose with one hand. “You have experience in a broad range of journalism. What type of writing would you be interested in doing for our paper?”

 

Harry pauses a moment, because the most immediate answer that comes to mind is  _ whatever gets me the job _ . He tries to think of something clever, something that will impress the unreadable and wholly unimpressed man before him. 

 

He knows this is an important, maybe even  _ pivotal _ , moment in his interview. He knows that he’s been out of work for far too long, and that he has a real opportunity here to turn things around for himself and his daughter. He knows what his career means to him, knows how much pride he takes in the words that he fits together on paper. 

 

And yet.

 

Harry’s fingers brush lightly against the front pocket of his trousers, over the place where his phone is stored. Anxiety twists like a knife in his chest, a painful and unwelcome reminder that something is indisputably  _ wrong  _ between him and Louis, and he has no idea what it could be. He’s done something, or  _ missed _ something, and it’s the uncertainty of it all that’s eating away at him. 

 

“Um,” he struggles to bring himself back to reality, struggles to refocus on the question at hand. “Uh, well,” he’s floundering and they both know it. “I think I might rather enjoy a similar assignment to when I worked with  _ The Local Observer _ .” 

 

It’s a rubbish answer, and Harry can’t help the frustrated tears that pool and itch uncomfortably in the corners of his eyes. He fights to blink them back, but a rogue droplet splashes down his chin. Harry wipes it quickly away, but not before Richard tracks it down his face, and to the floor. 

 

He says nothing, merely nods again, and moves right along. Finally, he sets the folder down, clasps his hands together in his lap, and meets Harry’s eyes directly. “Tell me Harry. What is it that first made you apply for this position with our paper?” 

 

“I need a job,” Harry blurts, and  _ immediately _ , he wants to sink into the floor and disappear. He’s been through a lot of interviews in his life, practiced it so much that’s he got it down to a science at this point. And he knows the four words he’s so tactlessly let slip is just about the worst response he could’ve possibly come up with. 

 

“I mean,” he feels desperate, and altogether defeated, but he has to  _ try _ . “I don’t mean to sound unprofessional, sir, it’s just that I’ve been out of work for a while now, and it hasn’t been the easiest time for me to be out of work.” 

 

It sounds like an excuse, so he really has no choice but to elaborate even further. “My divorce was finalized recently, and I have a daughter that I only get to see on the weekends, because my ex-husband doesn’t think my life is stable enough right now for a four-year-old. Meanwhile, he’s shacking up with his new boyfriend in a house that I helped pay for, and the man I’m irretrievably in love with hasn’t spoken a word to me in three days.” 

 

He cuts himself off there, mostly because he’s run out of breath, and a wave of ice-cold horror washes over him as he realizes that he’s just effectively torpedoed any chance he might’ve had at getting this job. 

 

Richard’s eyebrows are in his hairline, and his mouth has fallen into a little, surprised ‘O’. He looks completely and utterly lost for words.

 

Harry thinks this is probably where he should interject his apologies, and bolt from the room, but he’s frozen to his seat, either out of humiliation or fear, and entirely unable to move. 

 

Richard closes his mouth, clears his throat. He removes the thin-framed glasses, and begins cleaning off the lenses with the hem of his shirt. “Thank you for coming in, Harry. We’ll let you know when we’ve made our final decision.” 

 

-

 

Harry makes it all the way outside, onto the crowded, grey streets of London, before the tears start falling, and then there’s no stopping them. He slogs his way home with his face turned resolutely downward to hide the ugly twist of emotion. The second he’s turned the key in it’s lock and pushed through the door, he drops his black, wool coat to the floor, and scrambles with shaking fingers for his phone. 

 

He wants to scream, wants to throw the device so hard that it smashes straight through the window. 

 

Because he’s _fucking_ _everything up_. 

 

There’s a bottle of wine, previously opened and never re-corked, nestled in the very back of his fridge, half-hidden behind Nora’s favorite orange juice and leftover takeaway that’s probably several weeks old at this point. Harry reaches for it without thinking, and tips the lip of the bottle up to his mouth. He drinks hard and fast, and when he finally swallows and lowers the bottle from his mouth, he has to wipe away a mixture, red as blood, of salty tears and dark wine as it dribbles down his chin. 

 

He wishes he had something harder in this damned flat. A nice bottle of scotch, or a few shots of tequila. But it had been one of the very first conditions that James had forced Harry to agree to before he granted weekend privileges with Nora. Most days, Harry wouldn’t even have blamed him, might even see the sense in it. But today is not most days, and right now Harry can’t seem to find any sense at all.

 

He wants to be somewhere else. Maybe some _ time  _ else.  

 

And it’s that last thought that gives Harry the idea. He takes another, long swig of wine, then abandons the bottle altogether. He half-staggers into his bedroom, chest still heaving with wet, breathy sobs. He swings open his closet door, and drops gracelessly to his knees. He begins rifling gently, but it only takes seconds for a desperate kind of frustration to kick in, and then he’s rummaging like a madman, digging out piles of dirty clothes and old scraps of paper and shoes with scuff marks, and holes worn clean through the heels. 

 

He knows it’s back here somewhere, though he hasn’t touched it since he moved into this place.

 

His blood sludges to a screeching halt when his fingers hit something large and solid. He wraps his hands around the box, and pulls. It takes a few good tugs, because the thing’s half-buried in the absolute depths of his closet. Finally, it comes loose, and he manages to drag it out into the open. 

 

For a long minute, he merely stares. It’s a raggedy old thing, and it’s not really large enough for all of the sentiment that it contains, but it’s made of sturdy, reliable cardboard, and Harry’s had it since he was something like eighteen years old. He’s not really sure what possessed him to keep it for all this time, to carry it with him from place to place and home to home, but the second he presses both hands to the lid, he’s instantly and enormously grateful that he did. 

 

He takes a breath, and removes the lid. 

 

The very first thing he sees, is an almost offensively bright green hoodie. His fingers tremble as he reaches for it, and when they first make contact, the fabric is soft and worn from frequent wear. Harry can’t remember who it belonged to originally. They shared clothes so often that their wardrobes eventually blended into one, messy pile on Harry’s bedroom floor. 

 

He doesn’t remember who the hoodie’s true owner is, but he does remember the way it used to smell after Louis spent a whole day lying around in it. He remembers nicking it back, and pressing his nose into the fabric and inhaling a long, intoxicating whiff of cheap cigarette smoke and shitty cologne. He remembers falling asleep in it on the nights without Louis beside him, wrapped up in him. He remembers claiming it for good when Louis told him he was leaving. 

 

He sets the hoodie aside with gentle hands, and reaches further into the box. He pulls out a stack of letters, all of them written and never sent. Years worth of them, all still held miraculously together with a stretched and ancient rubber band. Harry swallows. He sets the letters aside, too. He doesn’t need to read them to know what they say. More so even than that, he doesn’t really want to. 

 

Beneath the letters, Harry spots a stray cigarette, burned nearly down to the filter. He reaches for it, rolls it between two fingers the way he’d watched a teenaged Louis do so many times before. The weight of it is unfamiliar in his hands. He hasn’t so much as  _ looked  _ at a fag in years, probably less to do with cancer and more so to avoid the sharp pain in his chest at a particularly poignant memory. 

 

He closes his eyes, thinks back. It had been raining that day, nothing unusual for London, and Harry remembers that when Louis arrived to their usual meeting place, he was soaked to the skin and clutching a cigarette. 

 

He only ever really smoked when he was scared. 

 

“Forget your umbrella?” Harry remembers joking, a little half-hearted because even at the very beginning, he could feel that something was wrong. 

 

When Louis didn’t smile at his stupid quip, Harry’s stomach sank to his toes. His bottom lip trembled as he watched Louis, tense and a little too pale, take a deep breath. 

 

Harry remembers what came next very clearly. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget. 

 

Louis looked up, met his eyes, and opened his mouth. “I got that audition. In LA.” He was breathless, wide-eyed and manic. “The one I sent the tape in for. They called me today.” 

 

And Harry didn’t understand at first, why this was such a big deal. Why everything he thought he knew about his future was about to take a hard, left turn. His answering smile was tight, careful, but genuine. 

 

“Congratulations,” he remembers exclaiming, voice shaking a bit. He opened his arms, expecting Louis to leap into them, expecting happy tears and exuberant kisses. 

 

When Louis still made no move towards him, Harry’s arms fell weakly back to his sides. “Louis?” he remembers asking, suddenly very, very afraid. “What is it, Lou? What’s wrong?”

 

His eyes were enormous and pleading as he said, “I have to leave, Harry. I bought a plane ticket already.” 

 

Harry nodded slowly, still struggling to comprehend. “Right. They want to meet you in person for another audition, right? That’s fantastic news.” He paused then, worried his bottom lip between his teeth. He lost his voice a bit. “Isn’t it?” 

 

Louis shook his head slowly. “No, H. Listen to me. I’m  _ leaving _ . For good.” 

 

Cold dread came next. Gooseflesh rose along his skin, and anxiety clawed at his throat. “You’re,” he remembers how hard it was to form a word, and then to force it out. “What?” 

 

Harry looks at the cigarette in his hand. At the end, when they’d finished talking and Louis had left him, Harry had plucked this very cigarette out of a shallow puddle of dirty rainwater, and slipped it into his pocket for safekeeping.

 

He doesn’t know why that was his initial reaction, doesn’t know why he reached so reflexively for it. Maybe he wanted proof, something hard and solid that he could point to as irrefutable evidence that it had happened. That Louis had been there, and then, suddenly, he wasn’t. 

 

Harry replaces the cigarette in the box, burying it safely beneath a few ratty, old t-shirts. He rummages around for a few more minutes, smiling at each object in turn, before tucking them carefully back into their place. His hand stills when it reaches the very last item in the box. It’s a collection of loose, typed pages, the edges curling with age. 

 

He’d nearly forgotten. 

 

“Shit,” he breathes. He traces the the two words centered on the top page with the edge of his fingernail.  _ Sweet Creature.  _ It comes back to him like a tidal wave, all at once. 

 

He pulls the pages from the box, and flips to the second, then the third, then the fourth. He reads each and every word that his lovestruck, teenage mind had thought into print. The words are messy, seeped in childish adoration and long-winded descriptions of eyelashes. He thinks he should probably feel more embarrassed than he does, but he can’t bring himself to regret a word of it. 

 

He’s crying again before he even realizes it, warm, salty droplets that make his eyes sting and his chest ache. Crying because he  _ misses  _ Louis in a way even he can’t fully understand, and because he  _ so fucking tired  _ of missing him. And he thought that maybe he wouldn’t have to anymore. 

 

Harry flips to the very last page, and stops. The writing ends abruptly, in the dead center of an incomplete sentence, and suddenly Harry knows that no matter what comes next, he has to finish what he’s started. 


	12. twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis shakes his head again, in obvious distress. “I took advantage of you. There’s no excuse for that. You were vulnerable, and I had been drinking, and, god, I wanted it…”
> 
> “Wait,” Harry quickly interjects. “What are you talking about?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving to all who celebrate. Thank you for your patience--I spent a few days catching up with old friends and family.
> 
> Boys touching boys ahead. You've been warned xx.

It’s half past five on Friday when Harry, preparing to pick up Nora from James’s place, throws open his front door, and Louis Tomlinson shoulders his way inside. Harry is too stunned to do much else but move quickly out of his way, feel his mouth drop instinctively open, and his jaw hit the floor. 

 

There’s not even any time for Harry to yelp out a strangled, “ _ Louis? _ ” because Louis’s mouth is already open, already saying a million things, all at once. 

 

“I should’ve called—I almost did a thousand times, but I always stopped myself. You must think I’m some kind of unimaginable prick, behaving the way I did. I’ve been so worried,  Harry, so fucking worried. And fuck, I’m so sorry. Can you forgive me? I understand if you don’t want to see me anymore, it’s why I’ve tried to keep my distance, but I couldn’t  _ stand  _ thinking you were angry with me. Are you? Are you angry?” 

 

Harry thinks Louis only stops because he’s run out of breath. He blinks, tries not to appear as outwardly confused as he feels. He realizes that in his surprise at Louis’s sudden appearance at his door, he only has one arm shoved through the sleeve of his wool coat. Hastily, he removes the coat, and throws it over the couch. 

 

“Louis,” he says when he regains the ability to form words. “What on  _ earth _ are you talking about? I’m not angry,” he continues, shaking his head in disbelief. “I’m so fucking  _ relieved  _ that you’re here. I was so worried when you didn’t call. Thought I’d done something wrong.” 

 

Louis’s head snaps up at that. He face goes as white as a sheet, and the lines of tension carved into his forehead deepen considerably. “Don’t say that,” he snaps. “You,  _ fuck _ , you didn’t do  _ anything  _ wrong, Harry.” He takes a breath, looks disgusted with himself. “I did.” 

 

Harry takes a little, involuntarily step backwards. Louis’s hard, remorseful words are throwing him off. He tries to play it off with a weak smile. “So you didn’t call right away. It’s not the end of the world. I lived, didn’t I?” 

 

Louis shakes his head again, in obvious distress. “I took advantage of you. There’s no excuse for that. You were vulnerable, and I had been drinking, and, god, I  _ wanted  _ it…”

 

“Wait,” Harry quickly interjects. “What are  _ you  _ talking about?” 

 

Louis looks up in alarm. “The gala, my gala.” 

 

Harry blinks, very slowly. Even as the words are leaving Louis’s mouth, it takes a minute for Harry’s brain to catch up. When the realization finally slides into place, Harry feels a bit like laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. “Louis,” he says, clear and emphatic. “You didn’t take advantage of me. Why would you even think that?” 

“I had no right to push you that far,” Louis is saying now, head bowed in shame, voice low and thickened with emotion. “I knew you were recently divorced, I knew you were confused. I knew I was more into it than you were. I was drunk, and I used that as an excuse to take what I wanted. It’s inexcusable. It’s...I’m just so sorry, Harry. You shouldn’t have to deal with my silly little crush when you’re still reeling from the end of your marriage.”  

 

It’s that last part, the bit about the crush, that finally tips Harry over the edge. He’s laughing before he even realizes it, doubled over with tears leaking out of his eyes. He only stops when he runs out of breath, and has to inhale several long, deep mouthfuls of oxygen and wipe away the salty drops of water from his cheeks. When he finally manages to meet Louis’s eye again, he has to suppress the urge to burst into another bout of manic laughter. 

 

“Stop laughing,” Louis orders, very seriously. “It’s not fucking funny, Harry.” 

 

“It is,” Harry disagrees, still fighting to catch his breath. “It really, really is, Lou. Because you’re so, incredibly wrong.” 

 

It’s Louis’s turn to look confused. For the first time since barging through Harry’s front door, lines of uncertainty manifest across his forehead. “What do you mean?” 

 

“I just,” Harry tries, but he’s completely lost for words. Louis’s wide, earnest eyes are not helping matters. “You have to...you just need to understand, Lou. You’re wrong. You don’t want this more than me. You  _ never  _ have. I don’t even know how to explain it to you, the magnitude of what I’ve been feeling.” 

 

Louis presses closer, hope suddenly alive in the blue of his eyes. He reaches out and winds his fingers through a belt loop on Harry’s trousers. “Try,” he encourages softly. 

 

Harry takes a shuddery breath at this new contact. His head feels fuzzier as the distance between them closes. “I’m not hung up on James. I’m not rebounding. My marriage was doomed from the start, Louis. The way I loved him...it just was never going to work. We both knew it. If anything, we probably should’ve admitted it earlier than we did.” 

 

Louis fights a smile. “You don’t want him back?”

 

Harry rolls his eyes, even as his cheeks warm and his mouth splits into a toothy grin. “No, Louis. I don’t want to get back with James.” 

 

“So,” and there’s that mischievous little curl to the corner of his lip that Harry knows so well (he’s tried kissing it into submission so many times before, to no avail). “The other night. That was…?” 

 

Harry lowers voice. “Long overdue.” 

 

Louis’s eyes glisten, and Harry’s heart aches at the sight. The soft, little noise Louis exhales next sends little shivers running up and down his spine. His thoughts are falling away, replaced with a warm fuzziness that leaves his mouth dry and his legs boneless. He touches one hand to Louis’s cheekbone, and follows the line like an arrow to his mouth. He takes his time here, tracing the perfect arch of his upper lip and reveling in the sensation of warm breath on his fingertips. 

 

“Gonna keep me waiting much longer there, Harold?” Louis teases. Harry can tell he’s playing at irritated (even now, he loves the drama of it all), but his voice is much too soft and far too fond for it to be believable. 

 

“Another minute yet,” Harry answers. “I want to ask you something first.” 

 

“Anything.” 

 

Harry has to scrunch up his nose to contain his grin. He’s struggling to maintain composure with Louis like this before him; pliant and begging, soft and beautiful. But there’s something he wants to know. He tries to focus. 

 

“How did you do it, all those years ago? How did you walk away?” 

 

Clearly, this was not the question that Louis had been expecting. He reacts with his entire body. His eyebrows disappear beneath his fringe, his mouth folds into a deep frown, and his eyes narrow into slits. He steps backwards, far enough away that Harry can’t reach him anymore, and cocks his head to the side. “ _ What? _ ” 

 

Harry knows he’s hit a nerve, because it hits him the very same way. He hates to dig up ancient history, loathes the way it still cuts like a knife to his throat. But it remains between them like an open wound, one that they’ve so far left unaddressed, and before anything more can happen, Harry needs to hear the truth. Straight from Louis’s mouth. 

 

“I just want to understand, Lou,” he says quietly. Carefully. “I’m not angry, I was never  _ angry _ . I just...how did you do it?” 

 

It takes a minute. Louis’s immediate response is to act defensive. He crosses his arms, pops a hip. His expression hardens, and his pretty, blue eyes ice over. It doesn’t last. The ice melts quickly, replaced with a fatigue that Harry recognizes immediately. Louis sighs. He steps back into Harry’s space, and fits the top of his head under Harry’s chin. Harry responds instinctively, and wraps himself around Louis, offering him comfort without speaking a word. 

 

When Louis speaks next, Harry can feel the vibrations in his jaw. “It was so fucking hard, Harry. But when I got the phone call, everything else stopped. I didn’t even think before I went to tell you. I was so fucking excited. I didn’t really know what I was saying, in the beginning.” 

 

“You knew you were leaving, though. You told me that much.” 

 

“I knew I was leaving. I guess I didn’t realize until later that it meant I was leaving you, too.” Harry can feel him shake his head. “I was a stupid child, chasing a ridiculous dream. I shouldn’t have left like that, but I can’t bring myself to regret it, because if I hadn’t gone, I wouldn’t have Nicki. And you might not have Nora.” 

 

Harry’s thoughts turn to Nora. An angel, sent to him as he watched his marriage collapse. The sweetest thing he’s ever possessed. The truest love he’s ever known. Of course Louis is right. Their ending was messy, and it broke something in Harry that took a very long time to repair, but it allowed for this to be their future. They were  _ so young _ when they first fell in love. It makes sense that they needed the time apart to grow up, to figure themselves out as individuals. 

 

“You’re right,” Harry repeats, aloud this time. He squeezes Louis tighter against his chest. He’s so, so fucking grateful. “You usually are.” 

 

Louis pulls back to smirk. “Yet, somehow, you keep forgetting.” 

 

“You can remind me, now,” Harry tells him through a smile. “Every single day, as many times as you want. So long as it means you’re here with me.” 

 

“Where would I go?” Louis asks. “I’m here, H. For as long as you want me, I’ll be here. As far as I’m concerned, we’ve wasted too much time already. ‘S why I lured you into a closet the other night, and had my way with you.” 

 

“No complaints on this end.” 

Louis chews on his lip. His eyes flirt nervously from Harry’s chest, back up to his face. “You have to know how sorry I am. Have always been. You were the last person on this earth that I wanted to hurt. The way I left...it was horrible. Shitty and abrupt and a million other things I wish I could take back.” He shakes his head. “I’ve never stopped thinking about that day. I doubt I ever will.” 

“I know,” Harry assures him, so very quiet. “It’s all okay. There’s nothing to be sorry about, anymore.”

“Yeah,” Louis says, more confidently than before. “Yeah. I guess fate had other plans for us, that cheeky little bastard.” 

“No more apologies,” Harry says. “From either of us.” He swallows thickly, and skims his hands up and down Louis’s arms. His pulse rises. “No more talking at all.”

 

Louis’s eyes glint dangerously. He slips a hand beneath Harry’s jumper, presses it flat against the place where a butterfly is inked into his skin. He stands on tiptoe, and touches his lips to the corner of Harry’s mouth, painfully slow. 

 

Harry freezes. He stops breathing. 

 

Louis works unhurriedly across his mouth, kissing each part of Harry’s mouth in turn. Harry’s trembling by the time Louis finally completes his exploration, and kisses him deeply. Properly. 

 

Louis’s lips part, and he murmurs an order. “Touch me.” 

 

Harry doesn’t need to be asked twice. His hands travel without hesitation to the hem of Louis’s deep blue sweater. In one smooth motion, he yanks the material over Louis’s head, and tosses it somewhere behind him. He shucks off his own next. Louis exhales his contentment, and pulls Harry’s mouth back to his. 

 

“So fucking fit,” Louis growls into his mouth. “Used to be a stick of a kid.” 

 

Harry stifles his laugh. He moves to Louis’s neck, and latches onto his pulse point. “You know you loved it, prat.” 

 

Louis tips his head back, groans quietly at this new contact. “I’ve loved every version of you, Harry.” 

 

His knees almost buckle at that. He holds on with all his strength, exhales against Louis’s jugular. He’s so hard it fucking hurts. His fingers fumble for Louis’s belt, tugging and pulling until it comes loose, and clatters noisily to the floor.  He pops the button of his trousers open with his thumb. 

 

“Yeah?” he asks quietly. 

 

Louis nods his agreement. “Off. Now.” 

 

Harry chuckles, but he obeys. Louis’s slate grey trousers slip off like water, and pool around his ankles until he kicks them off and into a corner. The only piece of clothing remaining is a pair of black briefs, so tight it’s sinful. Harry reaches both hands around to feel Louis’s perfect ass between his palms. Louis makes another breathy noise directly into Harry’s ear. 

 

“ _ God _ , Harry. Not gonna last long enough for all these detours.” 

 

Harry nibbles at his earlobe. “Just give me a minute to appreciate.” 

 

Louis’s laugh is breathless. He drags his teeth along the sharp line of Harry’s jaw, mumbling an impressive string of obscenities as he goes. He ruts his erection against Harry’s clothed thigh, increasing the pace and pressure as his whining grows more and more desperate. 

 

“ _ H _ . Please.” 

 

There’s only so much Harry can take. He caves, as they both knew he would, and reaches for his own belt. His fingers are just brushing against the cold metal of his zipper, when a loud, familiar ringing startles them apart. 

 

Harry recognizes the intrusive noise as his cellphone, and the spell is effectively broken. Louis wraps his arms around Harry’s neck as Harry retrieves the phone, and holds it up to his ear. He’s struggling to catch his breath as he speaks an overly cheerful, “Hello?” into the receiver. 

 

“Harry? Are you on your way?” 

 

James. Harry groans. He’d completely forgotten that right before Louis’s unexpected arrival, he’d been on his way out the door. 

 

“Fuck, James. I’m sorry. I’m running a bit late today.” 

 

“Everything alright?” 

 

Harry glances at Louis, currently laughing maniacally into his chest. “Everything’s great,” he answers, too quickly. “Overslept is all. I’ll be there for Nora in ten. Sorry, again.” 

 

“No problem,” James says coolly. “She’ll be ready for you whenever you get here. See you in a few.” 

 

Harry hangs up without another word. He cuffs Louis gently on the shoulder, and untangles them from each other. “I’m late to pick Nora up,” he says by way of apology.

 

Louis, still half-naked and half-hard, notches a brow. “So I’ve gathered.” 

 

Harry sighs his frustration. “I have to go. I’ve already kept them waiting long enough.” He holds himself carefully apart from Louis, knowing the danger of starting anything back up again. He redresses quickly, and tucks himself into his coat. He shoots Louis another apologetic look. “I swear I’ll make this up to you at a better time.” 

 

Louis rolls his eyes. “Quit that. It’s your daughter.” He kisses Harry, short but firm. The taste lingers when he pulls away. “We’ll finish this later.” 

 

“Soon,” Harry amends. He hands Louis a bundle of his own discarded clothing, and mentally curses their perpetually poor timing. 

 

They’ll finish this later. A thousand times over. 

 

-

 

James takes one look at Harry’s ruined mouth and sweaty, tangled curls, and openly smirks. “Sorry to disturb your  _ sleeping _ .” 

 

When Nora’s not looking, Harry flashes him a choice finger. “Not a single word.” 


	13. thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I thought...I really, truly thought, that I spent two decades making this up,” Harry murmurs, directing it at the back of Louis’s hand. “Romanticizing or embellishing, or whatever. But,” he stops to suck in a long, trembling breath. “I didn’t make it up. I didn’t imagine it. And it’s not going to go away.” He gathers his courage, and raises his eyes. “I don’t mean to scare you off or anything. I just thought you should know that I’m not going anywhere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops, she's back?

Harry gets the call offensively early on Monday morning. He has to ask for the information to be repeated, twice, before he finally comprehends what he’s hearing. 

 

“I got the job,” he deadpans, because surely there’s been some sort of mistake. “Me. Harry Styles.” 

 

The woman on the other line seems distressed. “Yes, Mr. Styles. As I said before, we were most impressed with your interview, and look forward to working with you.” 

 

Harry still feels stunned. “With my  _ interview? _ ”

 

Whoever this woman is—likely some poor intern not paid nearly enough to deal with this—she certainly was not told the unfortunate, excruciating story of Harry’s interview. 

 

“I’m not sure how else to put it,” the woman stutters nervously into the phone. “Am I not saying it right?”

 

“What, exactly, was said about my interview that leads you to believe it went well?” 

 

“Mr. Sinclair was quite taken with you,” she tells him, voice climbing an octave higher than Harry thinks is technically normal. “He was perfectly clear that you were his top choice for the position.” 

 

Harry pauses. “Mr. Sinclair?  _ Richard  _ Sinclair?” 

 

The woman’s voice is wobbly as she answers, “Yes, that’s correct.” She takes a deep breath, and clears her throat. “Can you start tomorrow?” 

 

Harry drops his phone. 

 

-

 

“I don’t understand what the problem is,” Louis says, after a long beat of silence. “You got the job, right? Why are you upset?”

 

Harry chews nervously on his thumb. He adjusts the phone against his ear, and momentarily stops pacing. “Did you hear the part about me mortifying myself and quite possibly permanently scarring my interviewer?” 

 

“It rather sounds like you had the opposite effect.” Harry thinks he can hear the smile in Louis’s voice. “Seeing as they offered you a position and all.” 

 

Harry’s brow furrows low over his eyes. He props his free hand on his hip, and scowls. “It’s obviously some kind of sick joke at my expense.” 

 

Louis’s laugh is like tinkling bells. Some of the tension resolves itself in Harry’s chest at the sound. “Don’t laugh at me,” he orders weakly. 

 

“‘M not laughing at you, love,” Louis soothes. “It’s just nice to hear from you. Before you called, I was looking through expense reports, and physically blocking Liam from entering my office with more busy work. Believe me when I say this is preferable.” 

 

Harry has to bite back a grin. “Am I interrupting something important?” 

 

“Not in the slightest,” Louis assures him breezily. “You’re preventing me from doing something drastic. Such as murdering my assistant, or swan-diving out the window. By the way.” He lowers his voice. “What are you wearing?” 

 

Harry raises a brow, and glances downwards. “A t-shirt with a coffee stain on it.” 

 

Louis moans like a pornstar. “ _ Fuck _ .” 

 

Harry giggles. He props himself up against the arm of the couch. “Are you trying to distract me from my existential crisis?” 

 

“That depends. Is it working?” 

 

The headache throbbing in Harry’s temple has eased since the beginning of their conversation. There’s a smile fixed onto his lips, rather than the original, deepening frown. Something warm and pleasant unfurls itself in his chest. “Maybe a bit.” 

 

“Good. What are you doing tonight?” 

 

Harry glances mournfully towards his kitchen. He thinks there might be a frozen dinner buried somewhere within the depths of the freezer. He’s more certain about the existence of an uncorked bottle of red wine, shoved unceremoniously into a corner of the fridge. “My schedule’s pretty flexible at the moment.” Hope rises in his throat. “Why?” 

 

“We’re going to celebrate your new job,” Louis informs him, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. “Tonight. Put on something pretty, and I’ll pick you up at seven.” 

 

Harry’s heart thrashes against his ribcage. He’s transported back in time. Suddenly he’s fourteen years old, and mortifyingly infatuated with a blue-eyed stranger. “You mean...like a date?” 

 

There’s a long silence. Then, “Not exactly our first, H.” 

 

Harry swallows. “It sort of feels like it is.” 

 

“I know,” Louis murmurs in answer. “I don’t think I’ve felt this nervous for a date in a few decades. None of them felt like they mattered the way this one does.” He pauses again. “Feels like I’ve been waiting forever to have another shot with you.” 

 

Harry understands that, down in his bones. He closes his eyes, presses a hand to his chest in an effort to suppress and contain everything that he’s feeling right now. “Yeah,” he whispers dumbly, because he hasn’t yet thought up the words that he wants to say. He struggles, tries again. “It matters. This matters.”

 

That’s not exactly right either, but Harry thinks Louis understands what he’s trying to say. He thinks they’ve sort of always been able to communicate without words. 

 

“Congratulations, Harry,” Louis says softly, after a beat. “You deserve everything good this world has to offer. Tonight, yeah?” 

 

“Yes,” Harry confirms. Excitement pools in his stomach.“I’ll be ready.” 

 

-

 

And Harry  _ is _ ready when, several hours later, he hears confident knocking at his front door. He affords himself one final glance in the mirror, and inspects his choices carefully. He’s painstakingly paired slate grey trousers with a forest green sweater. The trousers are new, courtesy of Louis’s incessant desire to shower Harry with bits and pieces from his sample room, but the sweater is an old, forgotten artifact discovered after an hour of desperate pilfering. He’s tucked unruly curls into a tidy little bun, and swiped on a few layers of raspberry chapstick. 

 

Altogether, he’s not unhappy with the result. 

 

At the sound of  a second knock, Harry hurriedly slips into his dark, wool coat, and struggles into a pair of heeled, black boots. When he reaches the door, he’s out of breath and smiling. 

 

Louis’s eyes crinkle in delight. “Hi there,” he offers brightly. “Am I too early?” 

 

Harry checks his watch. “Seven exactly. That’s impressive.” 

 

Louis shoots him a cheeky little wink. “Wanted to make a good first impression.” He rests an arm against the doorframe, and leans casually against it. His eyes rove up Harry’s frame, from the points of his boots, to the rogue curl tickling his cheek. “Lovely,” he observes quietly. “You should wear green more often.” 

 

His cheeks warm at the compliment. “Thank you,” he says, as casually as he can manage. He doesn’t want to give away that it took him four hours to come up with this objectively simple outfit. Especially since Louis is a vision, effortlessly beautiful in tailored, navy blue trousers and a casual, white button-down. His hair is long and messy around his face, exactly the way Harry prefers it. 

 

Harry realizes he’s been silently staring for too long. His blush deepens, and he ducks his head in embarrassment. “You look good, too,” he mumbles sheepishly. “Obviously.” 

 

He feels fingers prod delicately at his chin, forcing his eyes back up from the floor. Bright, blue eyes crinkle warmly in greeting. “You don’t need to hide from me, darling. This is  _ your _ big night, remember?” 

 

Harry cracks a tiny smile and nods. “I’m gonna be a mess all night, Lou. I figure it’s only fair to warn you now. I’m gonna be a complete and utter trainwreck of a person.” 

 

There’s a flicker of something familiar in Louis’s eyes, but it passes too quickly for Harry to work it out. “‘S like I said. Your night. No judgement on this end.” He smirks. “Though having a proper meltdown into your pretty little cake might frighten the waitstaff.” 

 

Harry perks up. “There’s gonna be a cake?” 

 

Louis tugs on Harry’s coat, propelling him forwards. “I suppose you’ll just have to find that out for yourself.” 

 

-

 

For possibly the millionth time since Louis’s re-entrance into his life, Harry finds himself observing aloud, “I’m underdressed.”

 

Louis tosses him a look. “You are  _ not  _ underdressed,” he says, accompanied by an eyeroll. 

 

Harry’s eyes roam the room, stopping every now and again to mentally assess the outfits of far fancier looking men and women as they enjoy their meals. He’s counted at least five full suits, and nearly every woman in the building has on some form of fitted cocktail dress. Even Louis, in his minimalistic white button-down, still looks like he fits right into the crowd. Harry tugs at his own sweater. “No, I’m definitely underdressed.” 

 

“I’m a bit offended that you don’t trust my opinion,” Louis says with a snort. “Remind me again, between the two of us, who is  _ literally _ employed in the fashion industry?” 

 

Harry ignores him. “Do you think they’ve got, like, a dress code or something?”

 

“I think you’re absolutely bonkers. Like, just broke out of the loony bin and still strapped into a straight jacket insane.” 

 

“Maybe if I’d thrown on a sport coat…” 

 

“Goodness, I’m going to have to smack you across the face, aren’t I? That’s what they usually do in the films, when someone’s incessantly spouting  _ nonsense. _ ” 

 

Harry’s eyes slowly find their way back to Louis, who’s leaning regally against the plush back of his chair and holding a long-stemmed glass of wine in one, cocked wrist. “Returned to this planet, haveya? Welcome back. Please stop worrying about insignificant little things. I brought you here to celebrate and relax, and that vein in your forehead is throbbing like it could rupture at any moment.”  

 

“It’s just,” Harry starts. He sighs. “You brought me to this beautiful restaurant. You’re doing all these lovely things for me. I want to do my part.” 

 

Louis sips his wine, and stares him down over the rim. He swallows, and purses his lips. “Perfect. You’re already doing your part. You’re sitting across from me looking positively  _ edible  _ in this low-lighting.” He pretends to fan himself with his free hand. “Is it suddenly and inexplicably getting warm in here? I feel a touch faint.” 

 

“You’re making fun of me again,” Harry whines, though the corners of his lips are twitching. 

 

“I was making fun of you earlier,” Louis corrects. “Right now I’m just making a few, very accurate, observations.” 

 

“Liar.” 

 

“What possible reason could I have to lie? Shall I poll everyone in the restaurant, and report back the exact number of people in this room who’d agree to fuck you given half the chance?” 

 

Harry’s entire face feels hot. “Alright, alright. You’ve made your point.” 

 

Louis tilts his head to the side. “Actually, I’ve barely started, but I’ll rest my case for now. I’ve made you blush more than enough for one day. Pretty little color, though it is.” He inclines his head at Harry’s untouched wine glass. “There a reason you don’t want to try my selection? I’ve been assured it’s the finest red they sell.” 

 

Harry tries to remember the last time he drank wine that wasn’t chosen purely because it was on sale. He reaches for it gratefully, and hums his appreciation as it slips down his throat, warm and savory. “Shit,” he says slowly, drawing out the word. 

 

“Good?” 

 

“Yeah,” Harry breathes. He takes another swig to punctuate his appreciation. “Really good. Great, even.” 

 

Louis giggles at his enthusiasm. He raises an arm, begins scanning the restaurant for their waiter. “Shall I order us another bottle, then?” 

 

Harry hides his mouth behind his glass. “Tryna get me drunk, Lou?” Already, his head feels fuzzy. He doesn’t think it has anything to do with the  alcohol.

 

For a moment, Louis assesses him in silence. His eyes, dark and hooded, move like tongues of fire, scorching his skin. Harry tries very hard not to squirm, to suppress the arousal building steadily in his groin. He gulps in a mouthful of air, and nearly chokes on it. 

 

“No,” Louis settles on finally. He blinks a few times, and looks a bit like he’s coming out of a trance. “Not drunk.  You start a new job tomorrow. We can’t have you turning up to the office with a splitting headache and a raging hangover, now can we?” 

 

Harry shakes his head. “It still doesn’t even feel real. Any of this, actually. Like, if I pinch myself hard enough, I’ll wake up, unemployed and alone, all over again.” He rubs at the back of his neck, and allows his eyes to roam anywhere other than Louis’s face. His voice goes quiet as he adds, “I don’t know how it happened or what I did to deserve this, but ever since that day in the park, I started to feel hopeful again, in a way that I haven’t in a really long time.” 

 

He feels Louis’s hand before he sees it, snaking across the table until it comes to rest on top of Harry’s. He rubs little circles into the skin there, runs his thumb along the ridges and valleys of Harry’s knuckles. It’s the smallest and simplest of touches, but it represents so much more than it is, and Harry has to bite down into the flesh of his lip to keep his eyes clear. 

 

It feels so good to be honest--more honest than he’s been in years--and he doesn’t know if he can stop now that he’s finally allowed himself to get started. 

 

“I thought...I really, truly thought, that I spent two decades making this up,” Harry murmurs, directing it at the back of Louis’s hand. “Romanticizing or embellishing, or whatever. But,” he stops to suck in a long, trembling breath. “I didn’t make it up. I didn’t imagine it. And it’s not going to go away.” He gathers his courage, and raises his eyes. “I don’t mean to scare you off or anything. I just thought you should know that I’m not going anywhere.” 

 

Louis’s eyes are blown wide, and Harry would be concerned that he’s  _ actually _ traumatized him this time, if not for the dreamy smile already fixed crookedly into place, and the ironclad grip of long, thin fingers around his wrist. 

 

Harry waits in a patience silence, allowing Louis adequate time to work up a response. His entire body feels it when his pulse jumps under the pressure of Louis’s thumb. 

 

From somewhere very far away, comes a loud, manufactured cough. Harry is the first to break eye contact, swiveling his head to the side and offering a sheepish smile up to an incredibly uncomfortable-looking waiter. 

 

“My apologies, sirs,” the waiter says, after aggressively clearing his throat several times. “I was wondering if you needed another minute to look over the menu, or if you are ready to place your orders?” 

 

Harry glances downward, at their entirely forgotten menus. He throws another thin-lipped smile in the waiter’s direction. “We’ll be needing another minute, thank you.” He catches a glimpse of a wine glass in his peripheral vision, and is suddenly reminded. “And another bottle of whichever ridiculously expensive red he ordered,” he gestures offhandedly to Louis. 

 

The waiter nods, professional and perfunctory. “Yes, of course. Right away.” He inclines his head, turns on his heel, and strides back towards the kitchen without another word. 

 

With that one thing taken care of, Harry is free to return his attention to the silent man clasping his wrist. “Lou?” he ventures cautiously. “I think we should probably at least  _ pretend  _ to look through the menu now. ‘ve absolutely no idea what to get.” 

 

Louis gives him a look of appall, and demands to know, “Harry Styles, are you actually trying to  _ change the subject  _ right now?” 

 

Harry blinks innocently. “Not, er, not intentionally? You didn’t, erm, look ready to say anything yet, so I thought…” he trails off because the hard, unimpressed look in Louis’s gaze has morphed into a weird cross between amusement and righteous indignation. “What? Are you  _ laughing  _ at me again?” 

 

Louis’s shoulders shake with the effort not to. “No,” he says, an egregious lie. “Well,” he takes a deep breath, and the laughter subsides, “not anymore. I’m sorry, H, it’s just. You should’ve seen your face just now. Priceless.” 

 

“Three seconds ago you were yelling at me,” Harry mumbles, half to himself, and only vaguely in response to Louis, “and now you’re laughing at me.” 

 

“I can’t help it,” Louis says with a grin. “You bring out the weirdest range of emotions in me.” 

 

Harry squints. “So that’s not exactly a compliment, is it?” 

 

“Believe me, it is.” 

 

He decides to accept this for now, and bring it back up later for a more thorough discussion. He has a far more pressing matter to deal with right now. “So,” he bursts out, abrupt and leading. “Before the waiter interrupted, you looked like you maybe wanted to say something?” 

 

Louis’s lip twitches at the reminder. “Don’t worry, Harry. I didn’t forget. I was just...collecting my thoughts. Trying to organize them into something coherent.” 

 

“And how’s it gone so far?” 

 

“Terribly,” Louis admits, grinning madly. “Haven’t you noticed yet? I’m an utter wreck whenever I’m with you. Completely abandoned by sense and logic.” 

 

“You’ve always been a good actor,” Harry reminds him drily. “So no, actually. I hadn’t noticed.” 

 

He doesn’t hate this new information. In fact, it’s sending him stomach into a series of pleasant little somersaults. His toes curl in his boots. Louis’s fingers, he can’t help but notice, are still pressing into the underside of his wrist. His heart does another dramatic lurch, and he silently begs it to calm. 

 

“And  _ you’ve  _ always given me more credit than I deserve. But I suppose that’s hardly the point.” He pauses. His thumb resumes it’s pattern of unconscious stroking, but this time Harry can feel the trembling. “What I really want to say-- _ need  _ to say, rather--is that you haven’t scared me off. And you’re not going to. Understand?” 

 

“Yes,” Harry answers automatically.  _ More than you know.  _

 

Louis shoulders visibly loosen. Looking much calmer than before, he reaches for a menu, and begins skimming idly. He flips until he finds the page he wants, and makes a delighted noise. “They make a fantastic risotto,” he informs Harry enthusiastically, an obvious and effective tactic to change the subject. “And the basil-lemon crab linguine is to die for.” 

 

When the waiter returns, blush creeping prematurely up his neck, Harry and Louis are both prepared. Louis orders the linguine, and Harry finally settles on salmon risotto with a side of asparagus. It’s another hour before their meals are served, and by that time, they’ve gone through nearly two bottles of wine by themselves. Harry is giggling for no apparent reason as a steaming plate of fish is placed delicately before him, and he scalds his tongue when he tries to take an overeager first bite. 

 

Louis’s eyes are alcohol-bright as he watches this, laughing so hard that he nearly drops his glass. He rights it on the table, and reaches for his own fork. “How is it?” he asks, around a forkful of crab and pasta. 

 

The second bite goes down far easier. Harry swallows, and grins. “This is amazing, Louis. Shit.” He piles more risotto into his mouth, and chases it with a gulp of wine. 

 

They eat in comfortable silence, until Harry has cleared his plate completely. He pushes back from the table, rests his head against the cushioned back of his chair, and presses a hand to his stomach. “That might’ve been the best meal I’ve ever had,” he announces, entirely serious. 

 

“I wouldn’t say that just yet, Harold. I’ve a few more restaurants for you to try before you make any rash decisions.” 

 

Harry sighs. More to himself than anything, Harry murmurs, “You really are going to be the death of me, aren’t you?”

 

It’s then that he first feels the toe of Louis’s shoe moving against his leg. Louis angles a slow smirk down to Harry. “With any luck.” 

 

The foot climbs higher, rubbing a path up and down the inside of Harry’s calf. Harry struggles to maintain his composure, fully aware that Louis’s eyes are locked and scrutinizing on his face. He doesn’t want to let on how affected he is by such a simple touch. 

 

Not yet anyway. 

 

He fumbles for the dessert menu, and busies himself with fabricated browsing. “This certainly looks interesting,” he says, selecting the first item that his eyes land on. “What do you suppose a rum-infused cannoli tastes like?” 

 

“Rum?” Louis guesses dryly. Harry is beginning to suspect that his diversion techniques are not actually working. 

 

“Oh, well,” Harry leans even further into the menu, using it to completely hide his quickly reddening face. “That would make sense, wouldn’t it.” He scans further down. “They’re all excellent, I’m sure. Any favorites I should know about?” 

 

“I know I promised you cake earlier,” Louis says slowly, “but I actually don’t feel much like dessert tonight.” 

 

Harry’s heart jumps in his throat. “Tired?” 

 

Louis shakes his head. “Not a bit.” He stretches lazily for the bill, and slips a card into the folds. 

 

“I can pay for myself,” Harry protests weakly, as he reaches a hand into his own pocket, and fumbles tipsily for his wallet. “Let me pay half, Lou.” 

 

Louis shakes his head and simply moves the bill further out of Harry’s reach. “Not a chance. This night is about celebrating  _ you _ , Harry. You can pay next time. Now put that wallet away before I have to confiscate it.” 

 

The next few minutes bend and blur into a flurry of movement. Louis helps Harry into his coat, warm fingers lingering a moment too long at his waist. Harry finishes off his wine in one final, delicious swallow, and has to lean his weight against Louis’s shoulder to keep his head from spinning. Louis leads him outside with sure, steady hands. 

 

Harry exhales sharply against the sudden, stinging air. “Cold,” he whispers, almost without thinking. 

 

A plume of icy breath brushes past Harry’s neck. He shivers, and turns. Louis, eyes hooded and twinkling, is watching him, mouth hanging slightly ajar. Harry giggles despite himself, and half-heartedly pushes against his shoulder. “What,” he demands, though it comes out less demand, and more whine. 

 

“I just,” Louis murmurs, trailing off. He shakes his head, as a tiny smile works its way onto his face. He pushes Harry back, this time with purpose, and doesn’t stop until the brick edges of the restaurant are digging into Harry’s spine. 

 

Harry lets out a low grunt, squirming to get more comfortable. Louis fences him in with his arms. Something familiar glints in his eyes, and it sends a rush of pleasure straight to Harry’s groin. 

 

“What now?” he asks, cocking his head to the side, and exposing a long, white stripe of throat.

 

It doesn’t go unnoticed. Louis’s eyes follow his movements, and study his neck with apparent appreciation. “Now?” he muses. He leans forward, and Harry can feel breath fanning over his face, tickling his nose and warming his cheeks. “Now,” Louis continues, “I suppose I should take you home, and tuck you safely into bed. Let you rest up for work tomorrow, yeah?” 

 

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, against his better judgement. “Probably should.” He swallows, and fights the protests rising predictably in his throat. 

 

“Then again,” Louis brushes his mouth against the hollow of Harry’s cheek, and traces the sharp line of his cheekbone with the freezing tip of his nose. “I don’t know if I’m ready for this night to be over just yet.” 

 

Harry doesn’t know when he started holding his breath, but he feels it now, a sharp, building pain in his chest. He lets it go, exhaling sloppily. “Come home with me.” 

 

Louis grins, like those were exactly the words he was waiting for. He kisses the corner of Harry’s mouth, always teasing. “I called us an uber while you were in the bathroom. I’ll have Liam pick up my car in the morning.” 

 

They tumble into the back of the uber, Louis’s hands still pressed into Harry’s skin, his mouth still attached to his jugular. Harry thinks he can see their driver’s eyes on them in the rearview mirror, but he can’t seem to work himself up to caring. He loves Louis like this, has  _ always  _ loved Louis like this; bright and sparkling and messy. He loves the unfocused, dreamy look in his eyes, and he loves the way his small hands reach for loose curls like a reflex.   

 

They trip into Harry’s building, and Harry drops his keys four times before he manages to successfully open his own door. He can feel Louis, giggling like a schoolgirl into his neck and slipping cold fingers beneath the hem of Harry’s sweater at every turn. 

 

Harry doesn’t bother flipping on the lights. The combination of darkness and far too much wine makes him feel braver than he is. And he wants to feel brave tonight. 

 

He closes the door behind them softly. He slips out of his coat, then helps Louis out of his. It’s only now that he realizes something between them has noticeably shifted. Louis’s hands have returned to his sides, and they’ve each taken up occupancy of a different corner of the room. There’s a different kind of tension sucking up all the oxygen, a different tightness in Harry’s chest when he tries to breathe. 

 

It hits him out of nowhere, slowly and then all at once. They haven’t been alone like this--really and truly  _ alone _ \--in twenty odd years. 

 

And they’re not going to be interrupted this time. 

 

Heat pools in Harry’s stomach, a confusing swirl of desire and nerves. His mouth has gone so dry that he can barely swallow, much less string together an actual sentence. His palms feel slick at his sides. 

 

He feels like laughing, and a little like crying, too. Moisture brims in his eyes, blurring Louis’s shadowy edges even more. He swipes a hand beneath his lashes quickly, and blinks several times to clear his vision. 

 

“Don’t cry, darling.” Louis swims back into frame. He takes a hesitant step forward, almost like he isn’t sure if he’s allowed. He stretches out a hand, closing the last few inches with searching fingers, until he grips the hem of Harry’s sweater between thumb and forefinger. 

 

“I don’t know why I’m crying,” Harry returns, surprised at his own honesty. “It’s stupid.” 

 

“It’s not,” Louis murmurs. He tugs a bit at Harry’s hem. His fingers brush against the ferns inked into Harry’s lower abdomen. “You know I understand. You know that I do.” 

 

Harry doesn’t say anything. He ducks his head, stares determinedly at Louis’s polished, leather shoes. He shuffles closer. 

 

“I can go,” Louis says after a moment. “If this is too much…” 

 

“No,” Harry murmurs back immediately. He grips Louis by the bicep to keep him there. “It’s not. I just,” he stops, unsure, and blows out a frustrated breath. “I’ve thought about this a lot, for a long time. I just want it to be right.” 

 

Louis shakes his head gently. “It’s always going to be right between us, H. Always.” 

 

“How can you be so sure?” 

 

Louis smiles then, and laces their free hands together. He pulls gently, moving slowly backwards. Harry can’t stop noticing things, like how they’re headed in the direction of his bedroom, or how Louis’s shirt has come unbuttoned nearly down to his navel. He follows Louis willingly, pretends to be surprised when they reach the closed door to his bedroom. 

 

“You didn’t tell me how you can be sure.” 

 

“No,” Louis agrees. He releases Harry’s hand, and slides his fingers to the doorknob. “But I  _ will  _ show you.” 

 

The door opens. Harry eyes don’t leave Louis’s for even a second as they tiptoe inside. Louis seats himself on the edge of the bed, hands splayed against the mattress to support himself. He tips his head to one side, and smiles with his eyes. “Certainly better than the twin, wouldn’t you say?” 

 

Harry’s lungs burn. “I got rid of it. That bed. Right after you left. The sheets, the mattress, the frame. Couldn’t stand to look at any of it.” He sits beside Louis on the bed. 

 

Louis brushes the tips of his fingers up and down Harry’s arms. Goosebumps erupt over the places where their skin touches. “Because you were angry with me?” 

 

“Because it hurt. Too many memories, too much history.” 

 

The hand on his arm stills. “I’m sorry. Constantly.”

 

Harry places a hand on the back of Louis’s neck, and rolls his eyes. “No more sorries, remember? We agreed.” 

 

The shift in Louis’s expression is immediate. “What shall I do instead?” 

 

Coy, like a dare. Harry’s stomach does a happy little flip. 

 

“Come here,” he whispers. 

 

Louis’s eyes flutter closed, and he grins. “I’m right here, H.” 

 

Harry shakes his head impatiently, even though Louis’s eyes are still closed. He swallows around the blockage in his throat, and chokes out a demand. “Come closer.” 

 

In one, smooth motion, Louis reaches a hand up to Harry’s hair, and rips out the hair tie. Warm curls fall thickly over Harry’s shoulders. He shakes them out of his face, and asks, “Better?”

 

Louis’s eyes are hot against his skin. “So much better.” He runs his fingers through the curls, dragging them languidly from root to tip. “Love your hair. Love it like this.” 

 

Harry thinks the sound of his thrashing heart will probably wake the neighbors. His hands shake where they come to rest on Louis’s shoulders. He grips the fabric of Louis’s button down and throatily demands, “Off.” 

 

Louis’s fingers work nimbly over the buttons, and he quickly shrugs the thin, white material off of his shoulders. Moonlight washes over the soft curve of his hips, and slips like water into the sharp dips of his collarbones. He places both palms flat on the mattress, supporting himself with his arms, and relaxes his posture backwards. 

 

“It’s only fair that if I lose my shirt, you should, too,” Louis comments offhandedly. 

 

“I thought you liked my sweater,” Harry teases, as he pulls the green fabric over his head. 

 

Louis catches his wrist, and tugs Harry down and over his own body. “I do,” he counters breathily. “I might even nick it from your closet one of these days.” 

 

Harry holds himself very carefully over the smaller boy’s delicate frame, using his knees on either side of Louis’s hip to support his weight. With one hand, he shoves a handful of curls out of his eyes, allowing a sinfully unobstructed view of the man laid out beneath him. 

 

“You can have it,” Harry murmurs back without thinking, mind already drawing up an image of Louis rolling sleeves much too long for his own arms up over his elbows.

 

“Color looks far prettier on you than me, love.” 

 

“Then we can share,” Harry says stubbornly, mind wandering, unbidden, to the box inside his closet, and the green hoodie hidden within it. 

 

Louis brings a hand up to his cheek, caressing softly. His lips twitch into a soft smile, and his thumb snags the button of Harry’s trousers. Calloused fingers skim over the waistband of his briefs. There’s a pause, then, “Okay?”  

 

Harry exhales roughly. “Jesus, Lou.  _ Yes. _ ”

 

Louis’s hand slips lower. Harry closes his eyes. 

 

-

 

“All these years, and nothing’s ever come close.” 

 

Harry’s eyes open sluggishly, and he turns his face to Louis, lying beside him in his bed. He feels his lips stretch into a spent smile. “I know.” 

 

Louis props himself up with an elbow, and pushes sweat-dampened hair from his eyes. “Do you remember the very first time?” 

 

Harry nods. “I’d never forget. It was my first time  _ ever _ .” 

 

“Even now, the fact that I was your first makes me happier than I can physically describe.” 

 

“That’s because you’re a competitive little bastard,” Harry jabs lightly at his navel. 

 

“A  _ jealous  _ little bastard,” he corrects. “Couldn’t stand it being anyone but me.” 

 

Harry raises an eyebrow. “Well I have to stand it,” he reminds Louis, “because that ship had sailed for you by the time I came along.” 

 

Louis winces minutely. “You know if I could go back and do it all again...you  _ know  _ I would choose to do things differently. I’d pick you, H, every single time I’d pick you.” He shakes his head. “It was supposed to be you, and if I wasn’t such an impatient brat of a teenager, it would’ve been.” 

 

“I don’t know,” Harry counters thoughtfully. “I think it was sort of a good thing, when it came down to it. I wasn’t scared, because I knew you’d keep me safe. I knew you would help me through it, because you were more experienced than I was.” 

 

Louis looks genuinely surprised by this. “Seriously? You weren’t upset?” 

 

“I wasn’t  _ thrilled _ , obviously. But I can’t deny that it was a relief that at least one person in that room would know what to do.” 

 

Louis blushes, and buries his face in his hands. “I definitely didn’t know what I was doing. No doubt I pretended to be confident.” He chuckles gently. “Fake it ‘til you make it, and whatnot.” 

 

Harry fits his fingers through Louis’s thinner ones, forcing his face out of hiding. “We got much better with practice.” 

 

“Yes, as I recall, you were eager to ‘practice’ at any opportunity presented.” 

 

“Must’ve been such a trial for you, having to sleep with me all the time,” Harry teases. 

 

“Mmm, it was,” Louis agrees quietly. He lowers himself down, nestling the top of his head in the free space beneath Harry’s chin. He places a warm kiss over Harry’s carotid. “A monumental inconvenience, I assure you.” He pulls his face back, meeting Harry’s eyes and smirking. “Obviously, as a horny teenage lad, I had loads more important things on my mind than you. Naked.” 

 

“Obviously.” 

 

Looking amused, Louis flops onto his back, adjusting the pillow more comfortably beneath his head. He grins and shakes his head. “I was dead crazy about you, Harry Styles. Every damn thought in my head somehow returned to you. My entire family thought I was losing it.” 

 

“Mine too. Gemma couldn’t tease me enough, and Mum…” he trails off. “Well, after that day Mum caught us in bed, she couldn’t even look at me without laughing hysterically.” 

 

Louis groans. “God, don’t remind me. Twenty years still isn't enough time for the embarrassment to wear off.” 

 

“You know she loves you, Lou.” 

 

Louis makes a doubtful face. “I know she  _ did  _ love me. I’d wager she’s not president of my fan club anymore.” 

 

Harry kisses him gently, once on the lips, than on either cheekbone in turn. “You have time now,” he says slowly. “To change her mind.”

 

His eyes look suddenly so hopeful, that Harry almost wants to cry. “I’d really, really like the opportunity to try.” 

  
Harry’s chest feels full. He wants to remember this moment, this  _ feeling _ , for the rest of his life.  “Then you’ll have it.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you sm for reading!! Leave a comment or kudo if you enjoyed :)

**Author's Note:**

> please leave a comment or kudo if you enjoyed, and would like to see more :)
> 
> as always, happy reading.


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